Devastation and Reform
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: The boys take on a string of mysterious maulings in Arizona but it seems like destiny may be catching up with them. Set late Season 2.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Devastation and Reform

Summary: The boys take on a string of mysterious maulings in Arizona but it seems like destiny may be catching up with them. Set late Season 2.

A/N: I started this fic over a year ago but I kept writing some, then putting it off in favor of other fics. When the dumb thing finally got to be over 50,000 words long, I figured I should probably just knuckle down and finish this thing, regardless of how I felt about. It's not my favorite piece of writing, nor is it likely my best, but hopefully it won't be too utterly horrific. I wanted to get it out before they resolved the FBI storyline, since this fic largely deals with that. So though it won't all be posted before Thursday's ep, just know I wrote all of this before seeing it, so it will become quite obviously AU in a few days anyway. Other things to keep in mind: it's set late S2, so small references for everything up until AHBL1. Oh, and this starts off slowly, and I know it, but there is plenty of action to come. It just has to get there first, so I hope you'll bear with me and my need for exposition.

A/N2: Much thanks goes to Tyranusfan for the beta, because I know he spent a lot of time on it. Also thanks to Rachelly who says she's never beta'ed before, but it's hard to believe because she's quite good at it. And thanks goes to sendintheclowns who has been with me literally every step of the way. She is a huge reason this got written, so all complaints can be sent to her :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. No jokes.

-o-

_I feel like I was born  
To devastation and reform  
Destroying everything I loved  
And the worst part is  
I pull my heart out, reconstruct  
And in the end it's nothing but  
The shell of what I had when I first started_

-from Devastation and Reform by Relient K

-o-

**Chapter One**

Dean had always preferred to look at the world in shades of black and white. It was easier that way. Things were good or things were evil. There was no in between. They wasted what was evil. They protected what was good. It was normal, for them. It wasn't easy, but it was comfortable in a familiar way. He knew enough to know it shouldn't be, but he didn't care enough to stop himself from relishing that comfort.

Well, for most of his life anyway. Then, Sam had to go off to school, Dad had to die, and to top that off, John had to dump one hell of a burden on him.

_You have to save your brother. If you can't save him...you may have to kill him._

Now it was all gray. Varying shades of gray that made him want to puke his guts out at the ambiguity of it all.

He glanced at his brother. Sam was zonked on the bed next to him, rolled onto his stomach with his arms wrapped under his pillow.

All those shades of gray and Sam was right in the middle of it.

On the bright side, at least Sam was getting some sleep. The kid seemed to be in full-on melodrama mode lately, paranoid about cops and the Demon and saving every person on the face of the earth--except, of course, himself. Typical Winchester blindness. At this rate, Sam really was going to burn an ulcer into his stomach, which wouldn't do either of them any good when trying to head all this off.

The only reprieve, it seemed, came when Sam slept. Sure, sometimes there were nightmares, but that was a risk Dean was willing to take for the sheer possibility of seeing his kid brother's features not stuck in a perpetual brood. Sam needed the blissful unawareness whenever he could get it.

So did Dean for that matter. Looking out for Sam and the world that seemed out to get them both was wearing.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean looked back at the TV set. The volume was on low and the program was some late night talk show that Dean had no real interest in. But, he just wasn't tired. He had his own share of crap to mull over. Sam wasn't the only one who was screwed at the present moment; Dean just knew how to hide it better, but it didn't mean his list of things to worry about wasn't pretty long.

Things like their most recent run in with the law. Things like their father's legacy. Things like the Yellow-Eyed Demon. Things like Sam asking him to kill him.

Dean sighed. He'd be better off asleep. He was working his way to an ulcer too.

Life had gotten complicated, that much was certain. It wasn't like things had ever been easy, but he'd always taken solitude in the simplicity of killing evil. Maybe that was why Dad and Sam had never gotten along—Sam liked to mud that simplicity up. All his questions, all his need to know _why_ made things complicated, and more complexity was not something they had ever really needed, no matter how right Sam may have been.

Well, at least one thing was still simple. His brother was still his brother. Sam would never go dark side, no matter what their dad said, no matter what Sam doubted. Sam would stay pure. Dean was sure of that. Their dad could doubt it, but Dean wouldn't let himself.

Too bad he wasn't sure they could stay clear of the law, or keep themselves safe from the demon.

He turned off the TV, plunging the room into comforting darkness. It didn't matter. In the end, all that mattered was staying safe, staying clean, saving people, and saving Sam.

The rest would sort itself out.

-o-

Morning came too early for Sam. His sleep was strained at best these days, heavy and sporadic. He seemed to resist it as long as he could, until his body simply shut down on him and he was as good as dead to the world.

The last hunt had been time consuming, but not altogether stressful. Just another evil thing to kill in a long list of many, and sometimes Sam had to admit, it seemed like no matter how many hunts they went on, they were barely making a dent.

He sighed, casting a sideways glance at his brother.

Dean was still asleep, mouth parted slightly, his breathing heavy and escaping his lips in small hisses. At least one of them could rest easy.

The sun was out, peaking around the edges of the blinds, and the clock on the nightstand (remove space) read 6:12. He knew this was an off day, some time to recuperate, and Dean would be asleep for hours yet.

Sam wanted to go back to sleep. His body seemed to crave it, but he knew it was a lost cause. His mind would never cooperate.

There wasn't much to do in a motel room, he knew that from experience, and he didn't really want to wake Dean up with the TV.

He eyed his laptop, which sat innocently on the table.

He sighed. Surfing the web always led to research, whether he intended it or not. It was just second nature to peruse his usual sites, to check the latest news stories. They needed a new hunt anyway. Staying in one place wouldn't help them accomplish much of anything except drive each other crazy.

It was inevitable, after all. Living in tight quarters with anyone was enough to produce friction from time to time. He'd learned that much with Jess, and she had been clean and well-mannered, unlike his current roommate. He loved his brother, there was no denying that, but when he really thought about it, they had totally different temperaments. They always had. Dean had been messy and easy-going; there were never any problems for Dean. Sam was more uptight and organized; he couldn't concentrate in a dump and he needed a schedule to keep him on track. Dean preferred TV and potato chips; Sam often opted for a book and a piece of fruit whenever one happened to be available (which was not common)

Still, with all the conflict, they still worked well together. They complemented each other, and even Sam could appreciate that. But it didn't mean that Sam didn't want to get out of this motel before tensions rose over who needed to do the dishes.

As he stood, his stomach grumbled and he rubbed the sleep away from his eyes. Some food and coffee might be the first order of business if he wanted to be at all sociable when Dean finally did drag himself out of bed.

He showered and got dressed silently, slipping out the door without disturbing Dean . At the nearby gas station, he picked up a few doughnuts and two cups of coffee, munching on a glazed doughnut and taking the rest for his brother. He snagged a newspaper as he checked out, smiling at the sleepy-eyed kid behind the counter, who in turn barely acknowledged his presence.

On his walk back, he shoved the last of the doughnut in his mouth while scanning the headlines out of habit. Most were irrelevant tidbits of local or national news. There were reports on the war and politics, all important things to the world, Sam supposed, but nothing that the Winchesters ever worried about. Demons and ghosts would be there no matter what countries were at war or who was in office. They couldn't be distracted by such things without getting an unnecessary headache. In another life, Sam would have cared--a lot. In this one, he just didn't have the energy. He was too busy making sure he didn't become the anti-Christto worry about a nuclear power in the Middle East.

Then he saw it. Nothing but a small blurb in national news section. Sam couldn't help but grin as he read it. Maybe today wasn't going to be a day off, after all.

-o-

Sam was quiet when he opened the front door, and was surprised to find it a pointless gesture. Dean was leaned back against the headboard, flipping channels.

"I hope you brought breakfast, you early morning freak," Dean griped, barely even sparing his brother a glance.

"Nice to see you too, sunshine," Sam said, tossing the bag of remaining doughnuts at his brother. Dean was many wonderful things, but a morning person was not one of them.

Dean glared at Sam before opening the bag and inspecting its contents. "You better have jelly filled in here."

"At the bottom," Sam said absently, scanning the article again. "Cherry."

"No apple fritters?" Dean asked gruffly.

"Someone's grumpy today," Sam muttered.

Dean just blinked. "Seriously, no apple fritters?"

"Nope, but I think I found a case for us."

Dean extracted a doughnut, sniffed it before taking a large bite. Mouth still full, he said, "Aren't you a productive one this morning?"

Sam ignored him. "We've got a rash of mysterious maulings," Sam said, tossing the paper at Dean. "All within the same ten mile radius in western Arizona. Medical examiner says it looks like the victims were attacked by some kind of large cat."

"So? Maybe it's an actual cat. They have cats in Arizona, don't they?" Dean asked, scanning the headline. "Maybe it's not our kind of thing."

Sam shrugged. "They've all occurred in town, and there's been no evidence that an animal was there at all—no tracks, no fur, no droppings," he explained, ignoring his brother's smirk at the last part. "The victims had nothing in common except location, but other than that, they don't appear to have known each other, no common friends, nothing. The cops are saying it's mysterious, but trying to keep it from looking like a serial killer. The rest of town's not so sure, though."

"Just because people are talking, doesn't mean it's our kind of gig."

"So you think that the cops are right? Some cat is randomly coming down into the heart of the city and clawing people, leaving no trace of fur or blood or existence? It just...appears out of thin air?" Sam pushed.

"Cats are stealthy?"

Sam just looked at him, his gaze unwavering in its persistence.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Fine!" he said. "We'll check it out. But my money's still on the cats."

Sam suppressed a sigh as he gathered his bag. "It's a two-day drive to Arizona," he said. He scooped up the keys on the dresser. "I'll drive."

"Dude," Dean said, his mouth full of cherry filling. "What's got your panties in a bunch this morning. "

With a glower, Sam just looked at him. "It's a case, Dean," he said simply. "You know how it is. Evil doesn't wait for you to eat your breakfast."

It was Dean's turn to glower, but he shoved the rest of the doughnut into his mouth. "Fine," he grumbled. "Let me go to the bathroom at least. I never thought I'd miss the days when you dragged your feet for every hunt."

Sam sighed, plopping down on the bed. "Just trying to keep busy," he said.

"Yeah, well, you keeping busy shouldn't interfere with my breakfast," Dean groused, brushing past Sam to the bathroom.

Sam quirked a grin and shook his head. Sitting still made him feel useless; but a smelly Dean wasn't exactly something that he'd enjoy driving in the afternoon through the southwest. Waiting a half hour was probably worth it, if not for Dean's happiness, for his own.

-o-

Dean liked the hunt, generally. He liked the moral sense of accomplishment it brought, of hunting down evil, of eradicating it. And he liked the structure of it. It was get in, get out, militaristic in a sense without the rigidity that the armed services demanded. Perks and no attachments; guns and violence. And it was all for the greater good.

Dean figured it couldn't get much better.

Not that he liked _all_ hunts. Some were tedious. Some were annoying. Some were too dangerous to enjoy. But at the end of the day, nine times out of ten (well, eight times out of ten), Dean was glad for what he did, the screwed up nature of it and all. He had thoughts of normal—sometimes, and he couldn't deny that occasionally the thought of a steady girl made him pause. But it was easier this way, more exciting, and, in the end, he wasn't ready to settle yet. The only thing that made him want to stop was that Sam might want to, that Sam might be at risk the more they get into this, that Sam may desire something more.

But, big bad Demon aside, Sam liked the hunt more than he let on, Dean was pretty sure of that. Sure, Sam didn't like killing, didn't like the constant movement, the manipulation of people, but Sam enjoyed the back story. He liked figuring it out, outsmarting evil things. He liked to find the twists, the details, putting all the pieces together like a puzzle. It was a geeky thing, Dean supposed, but even Dean could respect it a little.

And Dean could tell Sam liked _this_ hunt. The kid was practically enthralled by the uncertainty of it, by the unknown elements, by the chance to really dig around and find something unusual. Sure, Sam would sigh a lot and _look _broody, but Dean could tell Sam was eating this one up.

After all, Sam wanted to drive, was tapping his fingers on the wheel, nodding his head in rhythm with the music. All things considered, Dean had nothing to complain about. He wasn't sure he really thought of Sam as _happy_ anymore (maybe ever) but this was about as excited as Sam got, so Dean would sit back, get some sleep, and provide his kid brother with just enough counter-thoughts to keep him pushing forward.

"You need me to take a turn?" Dean asked, still slouched low against the seat.

Sam glanced at him. "No, I'm good. We're about two hours out."

Dean glanced at the clock. "You've been driving for nearly a day straight," Dean said. "I think you need a break."

"You drive for days straight at a time," Sam said absently. "I think I can handle it."

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?" Sam asked, casting a critical eye to his brother.

Dean grinned, leaning back in his seat. "I'm the big brother." It wasn't that Sam wasn't capable or willing, it was just that Sam rarely showed the initiative these days. Dean was usually the one at the wheel--of the car and of their hunts. Sam's newfound tenacity was unexplained, but not entirely unwelcomed.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll wake you when we're there."

-o-

They got into town just after nine that night, so they checked into a motel room to crash for the night.

The place was dusty looking, the neon sign in front flickering with age, proclaiming their destination as the Desert Oasis.

It _was_ the desert, but the run-down motel wasn't much of an oasis.

But it was air conditioned and it had beds, so Sam figured it was just as good as any other place. Dean seemed to agree, slinging his bag to the floor and looking the place over with a crease in his brow. The decor was faded and aged, the beige walls a neutral backdrop to the crooked paintings of desert landscapes, hanging in sagging metal frames. The bedspreads were starched and stiff, boasting palm trees and sand that probably obscured the wear and stains from years of use.

Dean crashed hard on one of the beds, groping for the remote as he stretched out. "Dude, this place better have cable," he muttered.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Sam deposited his own back on the table near the windows, plunking down in one of the stiff chairs flanking it. "Sometimes it amazes me that you have any brain left at all," Sam countered, pulling his laptop free from the bag.

Dean grunted as he flipped the TV on. "Still got enough brains to figure out how to get you to do all the hard work," Dean said smugly.

At that, Sam glowered and turned his full attention to opening his laptop. "At least one of us will be ready to start this hunt tomorrow."

"I'll be ready," Dean assured him, pausing at a channel. "Well rested and ready to laugh at you when this turns out to be nothing more than an over-active housecat."

"Jerk," Sam muttered.

Chortling, Dean just shook his head. "You know you love me," he said.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I'm the older brother," Dean said with confidence. "Pissing you off is my job. Keeps you in line."

Sam opened the internet browser and scoffed. "So what's my job then?"

"To worry and be annoying, mostly," Dean said. "And you do it so well."

Sam ignored his brother, offering him nothing more than a jaundiced flick of his eyes. There was some truth to Dean's statement, even if it was said in jest. One of them had to worry—about everything. About the Demon, about what happened to their dad, about what was _going_ to happen to Sam. Dean seemed ready to sum it up with a trite reassurance or a bland joke, but Sam didn't have that luxury. It was his destiny, his fate that was on the line, and it scared Sam more than he knew how to explain that he might not be able to fight that. So it was his job to face up to it now, be wary of it, in case the worst should happen.

He just hoped that someday Dean wouldn't have to face it either.

Not that Dean ever seemed to think about that. Since Dean had told him the truth about their father's last words, Dean's resolve had been steadfast. Steadfastly blind. Sam couldn't explain why he felt so nervous--things were catching up with them, building up. His visions, the Demon's plans, the number of kids like him who went evil, who ended up dead. There was something _wrong_ with all it, and Dean's reassurances weren't enough. They weren't enough to keep Sam from getting himself possessed. They weren't enough to stop the Demon from doing whatever it wanted, whenever it wanted. True, it had been months since his last vision, but that didn't mean he didn't feel the darkness building.

Throwing in Hendrickson and their whole interaction with the FBI didn't make things much easier. No, the Winchester brother were wanted men, both by humans and by demons, and no matter how good Dean was, Sam couldn't help but worry that his brother wouldn't be enough. Or worse, that Dean would be another casualty in the war.

There was nothing to be done, though. They had no leads on the Demon, either from Ash or from his visions. All Sam could do was wait. But that didn't mean he had to be idle. If he couldn't stop the Demon, he'd stop what he could. Do anything he could. He didn't know why it helped--why saving people meant something to him now--but it was all he had left to cling to. All he had left to distract both of them from Sam's destiny.

Swallowing his uncertainty, Sam turned his focus back to the hunt at hand. That was one thing he could do that _was_ useful, and he was certainly going to take advantage of it.

-o-

For all of Sam's good intentions, the kid zonked out over the laptop about an hour after checking in. The sight was quite amusing--Sam slack-jawed and drooling, his head down on his arm, which was spread long across the table. He'd wake Sam up in a little bit, when it would be too late for Sam to argue about staying up, but for now Dean would let him rest. He was, after all, the big brother.

Content, he let his own mind drift while watching the TV with the volume low. There wasn't much on, and the motel didn't get much in the way of interesting channels (not even a single movie channel with all of its late night perks), so he paused on a few Seinfield reruns and caught the end of the news.

He was getting sleepy himself when the news program caught his eye. The news anchor was nothing to look at--her makeup was heavy and she seemed far too fond of hairspray--but it wasn't her looks he was interested in.

The picture on the screen showed desolate factory, bleak against an empty, gray sky. Flashing lights still lit the scene with swashes of red and blue, and there was a gurney being pushed toward a waiting van, the body bag clearly visible.

Dean straightened, watching closely as the anchor droned. "...the body was discovered by the night watchman at the company. The police are still investigating this incident, but initial reports suggest that the victim was found mauled to death. This is the fifth such incident, and police are still considering these to be homicide investigations..."

Shaking his head, Dean glanced at his brother. "Maybe you were onto something after all," he said. Looking back at the screen, he frowned. Supernatural or serial killer, it was picking up its pace; making this case not only important, but dangerous.

With a sigh, he turned of the TV. Leaning back against his pillows, he let his eyes drift close. "You sure know how to pick them, little brother."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to all who replied to chapter one. I know it's a lot of set up, and there's more to come. But if anyone knows my writing, then they can know what to expect later and I promise it will get there. Eventually :) The boys are just doing a lot of legwork in this fic and for some reason I couldn't cut it. All other notes and disclaimers in chapter one.

-o-

**Chapter Two**

There were five victims, which meant there were five grieving families to interview and work for information. That meant five weeping mothers, five splotchy significant others, five stoically broken fathers, five confused sets of friends.

After four, Dean was exhausted and ready for a break. He'd been cried on, used as a handkerchief, and told about all the wonderful things so-and-so had done, and the food hadn't even been that good. Nor had the families been all that informative-well, _usefully_informative.

Dean loosened his tie, lounging back in the Impala. "Well, that sucked."

"Yeah," Sam said. "They're going to have a tough time. I almost wish we _were _from the insurance company so we could help them out more. Four kids." Sam shook his head in sadness.

"I mean, for us," Dean said. "We got nothing. All the victims have been normal. Completely. Haven't done anything weird. Haven't acted weird. Haven't talked about anything weird. _Normal_."

Sam's face fell from sympathy into a brood. "We must have missed something."

"Unless they're all leading secret lives their families don't know about...," Dean said with a shrug.

Sam sighed, pulling out his notes again. "We still have one more victim to check out."

"Great," Dean said. "Tell me we don't have a mother of four this time."

Sam ignored him. "Looks like a college student. I couldn't find any family in the area."

"Then who are we supposed to talk to?"

"He worked at a office supply warehouse, which, coincidentally was where he was killed. We can start there, talk to some coworkers."

"What's our story?"

"Well it looks like he's not from here. Friends from home maybe? Cousins?"

"Well at least we've seen plenty of grieving family so we'll know how to act," Dean said with a reasonable shrug of his shoulder.

Sam stared at him. "Nice."

Dean made a face. "What?"

Sam just shook his head. He opened his mouth and shut it. "Let's just go."

-o-

As it turned out, the warehouse was one in a long line of warehouses, all equally drab and nondescript looking. Smoke stacks could be seen on the horizon; this was definitely an industrial part of town.

"Not exactly prime location for the feline variety," Dean commented as he shut his door.

Sam squinted into the sunlight up at the buildings. Suspicion was solidifying on his face. "Not exactly prime location for the _living _variety."

"Yeah, well, let's just get this over with," Dean said. He was tired and aching for a lead to make all this legwork seem worthwhile.

Sam said nothing, but followed his brother.

The building looked no less inviting the closer they got. The outside was plain and sun scorched, the metallic trim casting bright glares into their eyes. The heat was still strong, not quite oppressive, but they were both grateful for the rush of air conditioning that met them as they opened the door.

Sometimes Dean liked to push into these things, to make him be the one to pump people for information. It was an important skill, he liked to remind Sam when the kid glared at him. More than that, it was delightful to see Sam squirm while lying with nothing more than a fake ID and bravado to back him up. It had always been his lifelong prerogative as the older brother, and it delighted him to no end that Sam always seemed surprised.

But things were different now; things were wearing thin. The jokes were hard to come by, and Sam's grimaces were more real than little brother affect. Sam was hurting and vulnerable, though he would admit it. His brother carried everything on his sleeve, and he was too involved, too connected. From his confession that saving people made him feel like he could save himself, to losing Madison--it just didn't seem right to put Sam in a position to initiate the subterfuge.

Dean couldn't really blame him. His father's penchant for secrets made him tired of his own, and the heartbroken looks on the faces of their sources began to hit a little too close to home for him. No, the way things were going, Dean just wanted the interview process to be over and done with. And the best way to get something done, he'd found, was to do it himself.

Sam didn't seem to mind, and followed Dean, just a step behind him, as Dean strode toward the desk in the small lobby of the building. The receptionist was a bored looking girl with bland hair and glasses who pointed toward a small room to the left.

When they knocked, the door opened and Dean poked his head in. "Hello?"

"Yeah?" a voice said to them. "You need something?"

Taking that as a cue to enter, Sam and Dean went inside, finding the room to be a small monitor filled room. At the seat in front of the screens was a young woman, clad in a security uniform, reclining and drinking a bottle of soda. She glanced over her shoulder. "Can I help you guys with something?"

Dean exchanged a curious glance with his brother. They needed answers and her laid-back disposition wasn't looking to work in their favor. "We were hoping to talk to you about Ryan River."

That caught her attention. She turned in her chair to look at them, her brow somewhat furrowed. "What for?"

It was Sam who answered, his voice a perfect pitch of sorrow and politeness. "We're friends of the family," he said.

Dean gave a melodramatic nod and looked down in forced sadness. "We're trying to do his family a favor and collect some of his things," Dean explained. "This has been kind of difficult for them.

Her eyes widened somewhat. "Oh," she said. A momentary doubt crossed her face before she smiled politely. "Well, he doesn't have much, but I can show you his locker."

Dean grinned appreciatively, looking down her curved body. The nametag clipped to her lapel said _Elizabeth_. "Thanks."

The girl smiled broadly for a second, then thought better of it, and blushed and started back. Sam cast his brother a glare, who just shrugged and followed her.

"I imagine this is pretty hard," Elizabeth was saying, glancing back at them. "I mean, with the way Ryan died..." Her voice trailed off with an involuntary shudder. "There wasn't much left of him."

"They say it was a mauling."

Elizabeth paused in the doorway. "I've never seen anything like that before," she said, looking at them with haunted eyes.

"You saw him?" Sam asked, and Dean straightened beside him. This was a break they weren't expecting, but certainly weren't going to let pass untapped.

She blanched slightly. "I was the one who found him."

Both brothers were silent for a moment, processing that revelation. Dean resisted the urge to look excited--this might be the break he'd been waiting for. This was more than a grieving relative; she could offer him more than tearful memories of what once had been. She was about perfect, in fact; a coworker, which meant she was close, but not _too_ close to be emotionally damaged of it, and she was as close to an actual witness as they had come across.

Which mean that maybe, _finally_, they'd get some concrete information, a better lead to go on. Dean couldn't deny the surge of excitement that spread through him--cases were always more interesting when they had something to go on, not when they were digging around in a whole lot of nothing. However, breaking into a wide grin probably wouldn't be the appropriate response. The events had obviously been somewhat traumatic for her, and Dean couldn't afford to turn her off to talking to them now. He was a bit relieved when Sam continued the questions. "You found him?" Sam clarified.

Clenching her teeth, she nodded. "I had the shift after his," she said. "I got there a little early, and the place was a mess. We still haven't cleaned it all up yet-the back room's still a crime scene."

"Wow," Dean mused, striving for sincerity. "That must have been hard."

If his intentions fell short, she didn't notice, but then again, Elizabeth didn't really seem to be paying attention to them at all anymore. She tried to shrug, and started moving again, stopping in front of a locker. She jimmied it open, before turning back toward them. "It was worse for Ryan, I'm sure," she said.

Not even Sam could manage a response to that. Not that Sam wasn't going to try, though, Dean noted with a minute shakeo of his head. His kid brother looked quiet and sad, and far too sympathetic. Knowing Dean's luck these days, Sam was going to push this girl to tears and then cry right along with her. Hoping to keep the conversation on track, Dean turned his attention to the locker. "Is this it?" Dean asked.

Elizabeth sniffled a little, nodding. "He didn't have a lot of personal stuff," she said, almost apologetically. "Like I said, he kept to himself."

Not a lot of personal stuff was an understatement. The locker was barren except for an extra change of clothes, a bag of chips, and an unopened can of Coke. The only personal item was a picture stuck to the door; Sam reached out and plucked it off, studying it.

The picture was of two boys, both dark haired and deep skinned.

"Do you know when this was taken?" Sam asked, and Dean could tell that, this time, Sam's quiet empathy at least hid a purposeful questions.

Dean eyed Elizabeth carefully, noticing how she fidgeted nervously. "I didn't really know Ryan very well, or his friend for that matter."

"His friend?" Sam prompted.

She nodded to the picture. "Michael something-or-other. They always volunteered for the night shift together. They were practically inseparable."

The pieces were falling into place. Sam was on a roll and his dewy eyes were surely winning her trust, so Dean let him continue. "Were they working together the night of the attack?"

"Yeah," she said. "But it was weird. When I got here, Michael was nowhere to be found. I figured maybe he took off early and Ryan was covering the end of the shift. But then he just stopped showing up."

Dean's interest got the better of him. "What else did you see that night?" Dean asked.

The question made her stop, and she swallowed hard. "I didn't see anything," she replied harshly, her voice shaking. It was clear she was trying to convince herself as well as them, but she was failing on all counts.

"Are you sure?" Dean kept his voice slow and deliberate, dangling a chance for her to admit whatever she saw, and waiting for her to bite.

"I'm sure," she said, a bit more resolutely. "That's what I told the cops."

It was the opening they needed. "But what _didn't _you tell the cops?" Dean asked.

Startled, her eyes flashed up to the brothers, wide and terrified. "Nothing," she said quickly, the lie sounding weak on her lips.

"Nothing?" Dean asked, and in that single word he conveyed enough doubt and skepticism to make her blush. Carefully, he reigned in his questioning, momentarily forgetting he was concerned family, not a cop in this act. "Ryan was close to us--we just want to know, for sure you know, what really happened to him. The cops aren't telling us much."

She opened her mouth, then closed it, and finally sighed. "I just…heard these sounds," she said. "Weird sounds. Like something growling right when I got on. I went to check it out and saw the blood. I found Ryan and started screaming."

The boys waited, biding their time.

She bit her lip. "And as I was going to call 911, I saw something moving. Something fast. It looked almost like a cat."

"The cops did say it was a mauling," Sam suggested cautiously. "Maybe you saw it."

She shook her head adamantly. "No, it wasn't a cat. Not like a _real_cat. It walked on two legs. It looked like a…like a half man, half cat. But that's crazy, right?"

It did sound a little crazy, but crazy was right up there alley.

Dean offered a half smile. "Mind will play tricks on you under extreme circumstances," he finally agreed.

She looked both relieved and disappointed, and Dean felt a twinge of guilt. She'd seen something, she knew it, but until she was integral to the case, it was best to leave her out of it.

He glanced at Sam, who had a sorrowful, pitying look on his face. His brother had such a bleeding heart for victims. Now more than ever.

But, he had to admit that Sam was right on that count. Some people deserved to stay innocent. If he couldn't preserve Sam's innocence, which he clearly couldn't, he'd settle for this girl today.

Reinforcing his smile, he said, "We really appreciate your time."

The thanks seemed to shake her from her thoughts. "Yeah," she said, attempting to sound airy. "No problem. Anything to help."

She walked them to the door, and her doubts from earlier seemed to be abating as Dean asked her what a nice girl like her was doing working at a place like this.

Blushing a little, Elizabeth looked down. "What can I say? I like to play with guns."

Sam rolled his eyes behind her and Dean just grinned. "What do you know? So do I?"

The look she flashed up at him was interested and bright.

Dean cocked his head, raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to reply, when Sam abruptly cut him off.

"Thanks again for your help," he said, moving purposefully beside Dean.

She looked surprised, maybe disappointed, but managed a polite smile. "Yeah, really, no problem. Call if you have any more questions or anything."

"Oh, we will," Dean said, but Sam's hand was on his elbow and he was being pulled toward the door.

She followed them, taking hold of the open door as they went through. "That your car?" she asked, nodding toward the Impala parked in the first row.

That was enough to stop both brothers, much to Sam's chagrin. "Yeah," Dean said.

"Nice," she said with an approving air. "That an Impala?"

Dean's interest piqued and his smile widened with sincerity. "Yeah."

"What year?"

"'67," Dean said, more than a small hint of pride coloring his voice.

She nodded, clearly impressed. "It looks like it's in great condition," she said. "You don't see a lot like that these days."

Dean shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but only appearing cheesy. "It's been in the family for years."

Elizabeth looked ready to say more, when Sam cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Dean.

Dean's smile faded to a discontented smile. "We'll be in touch," he said, lingering, but Sam was already walking to the car.

-o-

Elizabeth's comments on the car had Dean glowing like a proud mother, and the glow didn't fade as he drove them back toward the motel, his posture even a little straighter in his fit of pride.

Sam on the other hand, seemed to be living up to little brother form, and was almost sulking in the passenger's seat. Sam's previously good mood had evaporated-the kid hated the acts they used to pump information and the mystery was showing no progress of being solved. Besides, Dean knew part of Sam's problem solving technique involved some good, old-fashioned brooding.

So Dean tried to pay him no heed. After all, if he ignored Sam, then Sam couldn't bring his spirits down. And this was the best he'd felt since they'd started this hunt.

With that in mind, he pulled off at the first diner he saw, no matter how dingy or greasy it looked. Sam raised his eyebrows at him but Dean merely killed the engine and said, "I'm starved and I'm betting that motel doesn't have room service."

That elicited a snort from Sam, who followed him wordlessly into the diner. They settled in a seat by the window, perusing the splotchy menus with detached interest.

Dean was weighing the benefits of a bacon cheeseburger against the merits of a Philly cheese steak when he found Sam looking at him.

Not just a casual, what-are-you-going-to-order look, but something else.

Great. Sam had that _look _on his face, that too-sympathetic, I-know-better-than-you look. Dean grimaced expectantly, hoping to push his brother into stuffing his mouth with food before he could really strike up a conversation.

The waitress had dropped off a few glasses of water, when Dean looked at his brother again. He knew immediately it was a mistake.

"I think we should talk about the car," Sam said before he could look away.

Usually Sam's talks were just annoyingly girly, but this one immediately made him mad. It didn't take a genius to guess what Sam wanted ot say about it, and it was a conversation Dean refused to humor. His forehead creased and his eyes darkened. "What's to talk about?"

Sam looked at him like Dean should know exactly what he was talking about. "It's kind of conspicuous, don't you think?"

"It's a classic," Dean said, opening the menu with purpose. "People are going to notice it."

"And that's my point," Sam said, leaning forward. "People _do_notice it."

"And that's a problem because?"

It didn't seem possible, but Sam looked more incredulous. He leaned farther forward and his voice dropped. "Well you are kind of on the FBI most wanted list," Sam hissed. "I'm sure they know about the car too."

"So?" Dean asked, flipping through the menu without seeing it at all.

"Well, don't you think maybe we should consider-"

Dean looked up sharply, his eyes deadly. "Don't say it, Sam."

A muscle twitched in Sam's jaw and his eyes were wide and placating. "I just think there's a bigger picture."

"I think you better rethink that altogether," Dean suggested threateningly. "Now look at your menu and get ready to order."

Sam sighed, collapsing back against the seat. "I just don't think it's worth the risk."

"Dude, if we can survive hunting demons and ghosts and freakin' poltergeists, I think we can survive driving the Impala," Dean snapped. "Now look at your menu and shut up before I leave you behind. Seven foot sasquatches aren't exactly inconspicuous either, and the car actually takes me places while you just annoy me."

Sam's compassion had been reduced to a glare. "Fine," he said. "When you get caught, I'm sure it'll all be worthwhile."

"Damn straight," Dean said, looking back at the menu. Then, before Sam could muster a comment in retaliation, Dean motioned the waitress over to take their order. Which was such a typical Dean thing to do. Avoid the conflict by bringing in a third party. He _knew_ Sam would avoid raising a stink in front of other people.

Any frustrations Sam may have had were released with an exasperated sigh, which Dean ignored purposefully as he delineated an order for a grilled chicken sandwich with tomato, mayo, and lettuce, extra onions (because Sam _deserved_ it), and a side of fries and a beer to top it off.

By the time Sam placed his order for a salad, Salisbury steak and fries, he was ready to drop the conversation, much to Dean's relief and Sam's benefit. The younger brother murmured answers to the waitress' questions: "Yes, I'll take the gravy...no, I don't want a cup of soup."

Dean watched the waitress leave, waiting until she was a safe distance away before taking a sip of his drink. It was another minute before Sam dared to talk to his brother again.

"So what do you think about Ryan's death?" Sam finally ventured, resigned to surrender his previous point.

Dean shrugged, taking a gulp of his water. "Half man, half cat? Sounds a little hokey to me."

Sam seemed to consider that. "Maybe. But we've seen a lot of weird stuff."

"There's weird, and then there's _weird_," Dean said.

"She seemed pretty certain," Sam pointed out. "Not exactly the wishy-washy type. I mean, she saw something-she was freaked out enough to hide it."

"Sure, something," Dean agreed. "But that doesn't mean it was a half man, half cat. I mean, what would that even be?"

"Some kind of spirit?"

"Of...? A cat? The Catwoman wannabe?"

Okay, even Sam had to admit that sounded like more than slightly ridiculous. But Dean did have a tendency to oversimplify things when it wasn't _his_ case they were chasing. Sam persisted. He was nothing if not persistent. "Maybe some kind of spirit joining...a merging of some sorts. Or a projection."

"Who would project a homicidal man-cat into the warehouse district of Flat Rock, Arizona?" Dean poked at the ice in his cup with his straw. "It's a stretch, even for us."

Sam's shoulders drooped and he frowned. "I know," he admitted. "I'm just trying to figure this out. There is _something _going on here, and we just need to figure out what it is."

Sam figured he must have looked a bit like a kicked puppy because Dean's demeanor lightened, hedging a bit toward optimism. "So what else can we try?"

"Well, the kid did have an apartment," Sam said. "We can check there. See what else turns up."

"Fantastic," Dean said, but he was smiling at the waitress who was placing plates in front of them. "Thanks. I'm totally famished."

"No problem, sweetie," she crooned. "Can I get you boys anything else?"

Dean grinned broadly up at her and Sam managed a slight shake of his head. "I think we're good, thanks."

"We're fabulous," Dean echoed him.

The waitress chuckled, blushing a little, before turning back toward the kitchen.

Sam stared at his brother, almost bewildered. Dean just shrugged and shoveled a fry into his mouth. "What?"

-o-

Stomachs full, dissentions quelled, the boys found themselves a few miles from the warehouse district, roaming the neighborhoods of small houses and apartment complexes for Ryan's home.

This was pretty typical for them, and Sam was always a bit impressed with Dean's innate ability to navigate. They had both been raised in a transient home, and unfamiliar territory was actually what made them comfortable. Somewhere along the line, Dean had developed a particularly keen sense of awareness, of city layout, and usually they didn't need much more than a cursory glance at a map before Dean was able to ease the Impala to the right destination.

Today was no different.

Crestview Apartments were little more than three-story concrete boxes that loomed pathetically at the top of a hill on the south side of town. It was nothing special, but seemed to attempt to look nicer than average.

There was a large lot, spotted with various dilapidated cars and rusted pickups. It did not escape Sam's notice that Dean put the car in the first spot, right next to the street, and any questions Sam may have had as to Dean's intentions were made clear by the half smirk that adorned his brother's face.

Sam just rolled eyes his and quelled the urge to comment.

Dean killed the engine and then looked expectantly at him.

"Good spot, huh?" he asked, his looked deviously humorous.

Sam gave a fake smile and nodded facetiously. "The best."

Dean raised his eyebrows, grinning proudly. "You have to know how to have fun in life, Sammy."

"I would rather stay alive and out of prison if I could help it."

"Aw, come on, Sammy," Dean chided. "You need to lighten up a bit. There has to be a _reason_ we bother staying alive at all."

Sam's patience was already thin, and his brother's cavalier attitude was grating dangerously. He wanted his brother to be happy, he really did, but Dean was far too flippant about their safety sometimes. They'd lost enough; the last thing they needed was to risk throwing away what little was left of their lives by getting in trouble with the law. They'd been on the other side of the bars and that wasn't an experience Sam was ready to relive. He sighed. "Dean, can we just focus. Please."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're boring."

"You're a jerk."

Dean showed a sudden surprising maturity and changed the subject, which Sam was marginally grateful for. "Tell you what. You sweep the grounds with the EMF. I'll talk to the landlord and see if I can learn anything about Ryan."

From experience, he knew that separating on a hunt usually wasn't a good experience. However, at this point, he was a bit relieved he didn't have to be with Dean for a bit. He wanted to avoid fratricide if he could. "Fine," he gritted out. "I'll see you in a few." He swung his door open and unfolded himself from the seat.

Dean followed suit. "You know, if you keep your face like that much longer, it's going to stay like that forever."

"Bite me," Sam tossed over his shoulder, stalking off toward the buildings as he heard Dean chuckling in the background.

Once he was out of range from his brother, Sam could feel himself relaxing. Maybe he was being a bit anal, but it didn't give Dean a good reason for acting like they owned the world. Last he checked, they were wanted men by the law and demons alike, neither of which boded well for them.

Which was why they needed to focus on this hunt. They couldn't do much about Hendrickson or the demon. They could figure out what was killing these people, and that was what Sam wanted to concentrate on for now.

The grounds consisted of another parking lot, a pathetic assortment of desert greenery, and a small jungle gym near the laundry room entrance. The day was hot, and children ran around dressed in as little as possible. An old woman was sprawled in a chair, fanning herself in the laundry room, seeming to glare at him as he wandered past.

He worked the EMF discreetly in front of him, moving carefully so as to hide the small piece of equipment.

A pair of small children ran across the sidewalk in front of him, squealing and laughing.

Sam wiped his forehead-the heat was in full force today.

Something spiked on the EMF but diminished quickly. Sam ducked around, trying to chase it, lingering near the edges of the buildings, but nothing reappeared. There were no hot spots, just some residual flare. He looked up, taking in the wires that roped from building to building.

It was possible there was just interference, or it was possible that there was something around-just nothing very strong and the EMF certainly wasn't going to give him a clear sense of direction. Maybe if he could get into the apartments and sweep each one.

He sighed. The complex was too large. Without more concrete evidence of activity, he had nothing to go on.

He was circling the last building when he nearly ran into his brother, who was walking quickly toward him.

"Hey, you find out anything?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. "Some background noise, but nothing specific. Could just be the telephone wires."

Dean crinkled his nose.

"What about the landlord?"

"Landlady," Dean clarified, a sly grin on his face.

Sam just stared, half in disbelief that his brother was going there at all, half in just pure annoyance.

Dean's smile fell in exasperation. "Said he was quiet," Dean said. "Nothing too special. Paid his rent on time, was never any trouble. Nice kid."

Sam looked pensive. "Did she say anything else?"

"Well, she thought he was cute, and not in that little kid way, which I thought was creepy as she was, like fifty."

Ignoring his brother, Sam said, "Maybe we should check out his place?"

Dean grinned and held up a key. "I'm already ahead of you on that one."

"You stole it?"

Dean feigned hurt. "She gave it to me. I said I was his cousin."

Sam just stared. "His cousin?"

"Why not?"

"He was Native American. You look nothing like him." Sometimes his brother's blatant audacity floored him. Their claim to being family at the warehouse had been lack of knowledge; now it was just plain ludicrous.

"Not my fault I was born with good genes," Dean said, shrugging, and moving to the building.

Snorting, Sam shook his head, and followed.

-o-

The first thing Dean noticed was the smell. It wasn't bad, necessarily, and Dean had certainly smelled worse, but it was distinctive and stuffy, and definitely needed to be exposed to some fresh air.

Once inside, the two boys took in their surroundings.

The apartment was small, hardly three rooms total. The kitchen was crammed into the living room and while there was a small section of space for a dining room, there was no table there. The counters were clean and barren. There was a small futon facing a small TV with rabbit ears poking wildly off the top. There was a set of cheap bookshelves, heaped with books and smaller items.

But beyond that, there was nothing. The coffee table was vacant and the lone end table hosted a phone and a lamp.

"Not very into material possessions, huh?" Dean commented, moving inward.

Sam merely raised his eyebrows in agreement.

"I mean, what does he do in his free time? He didn't even have cable."

At that, Sam just glared his annoyance.

"I'm just saying."

Sam didn't dignify him with a response and instead headed toward the bedroom.

Dean watched him go, a satisfied grin on his face. Sure, he loved and protected the kid and worried about him like no other, but there were few things more enjoyable for a big brother than annoying the younger. Relishing his success, Dean continued his investigation of the living room.

With a sweep of his eyes, he covered the couch and coffee table and even the TV stand. Finding the whole research element woefully anticlimactic, he pushed play on the answering machine before heading over the bookshelves to take a look.

"_Hey, Ryan, it's Michael. I was just calling to let you know I visited Elliott. He had a lot to say, man. I'll tell you more when I see you."_

Dean browsed the contents of the cheap bookshelf along the wall, finding a handful of books on Native American culture, along with some on herbal remedies.

The machine beeped and the next message began. "_Ryan, it's Michael. Are we still on for tonight?_"

He picked up a candle and sniffed it, grimacing at its pungent odor.

"_Hey, Ryan, it's me--Michael. I just...I wanted to talk.. You home? Okay. Call me_."

When it beeped again, Dean rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, Ryan, it's Michael," he muttered, finger a rock on the shelves.

"_Ryan, it's Michael..._"

Dean scoffed. Sometimes it was too easy.

"_I have the stuff. Where are you? We're supposed to leave ten minutes ago. I want to get this done tonight. Just...call me, okay?"_

The machine beeped for the final time, heralding the end of the messages.

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Apparently the kid didn't get around much."

"Sounds like those two were pretty tight," Sam called. "Maybe we should try talking to him."

"Yeah, but we don't know his name or his number...just a voice on an answering machine," Dean pointed out, flipping through a magazine on the coffee table.

From the other room, he could hear Sam's voice. "Maybe it's Michael Whitefoot, who lives at 210 Walnut Drive."

"And how do you figure that?" Dean asked.

"I'm psychic, remember?" Sam said, strolling into the room.

Dean cocked his head in question.

"That and I found his address book," Sam added, tossing it at Dean.

Dean caught it with a glare. "Yeah, and don't forget to mention that you're a smartass, Smartass."

Sam chuckled dryly. "Whatever, dude. Let's just go talk to Michael and see what he can tell us."

Dean forced a smile as he stood, following Sam to the door. "I can hardly contain myself."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: More exposition! It never ends! Thanks to those of you sticking with it :) After this week's ep, the rest of this fic is quite definitely AU, but like I've said, I started this too long ago to abandon. So I hope you humor me. Also keep the late S2 mindset for the boys when reading this fic. Oh, and this story deals a little with a Native American ritual. It has some minimal basis in reality, but it is mostly made up. It is not my intention to offend anyone. All other notes and disclaimers in chapter one.

-o-

**Chapter Three**

Michael's address was not in town, much to Dean's dismay. In fact, as Sam scoured the Internet, they discovered that Michael's address actually fell into an Indian reservation about thirty miles outside of town.

"Gas is too expensive for this kind of thing," Dean grumbled.

Sam just shook his head dismissively. "We drive all over the country and you're complaining about driving thirty miles?"

Sam's logic was always well, logical but that didn't matter much to Dean. There were principles, and the fact was that one of the benefits to being on a case meant less time in the car. Not that he didn't love his car, because he did, but even his legs began to cramp in the small front seat. He could only imagine how Sam's Sasquatch-legs felt.

Besides, this was Sam's hunt. That meant he got to be the petulant one. That was just one of the rules. Driver picks the music, and tagalong whines the whole time. And since he was usually the one heading up the hunt, he usually had to listen to Sam's incessant questions and complaints.

Revenge was so very sweet.

Still didn't mean he liked driving all that way.

Sam, however, seemed oblivious to Dean's complaints, which made it far less fun. Half the fun of whining was the reaction it got out of Sam. When Sam was focused, Dean's source of entertainment went right out the window. Dean was so demoralized, he let the rest of the trip pass in silence.

The reservation stood out, stark and lonely, against the backdrop of the desert horizon. The streets were quiet, mostly deserted except for a few children playing kickball in the street who stopped to stare at them as they drove by.

Beyond the small town center, which was sparsely populated and grimy with sand, they found the residential streets. The houses were all small, looking vaguely similar in size and layout. The only distinguishing factor was the colors, which varied in faded and muted pale colors.

The sidewalks ran long and straight and cracked, stretching over the flat ground. Past the rows of houses, barren landscape spanned in front of them. The yards were as desolate as the desert, many fenced in and minimally accentuated.

They parked the car on the far end of the street. After Sam's little suggestion about the Impala, Dean had conceded to at least park it in out of the way locations to minimize the risk of being seen with it. Not that he'd let on to Sam. At his brother's questioning glance, Dean shrugged. "It seems like a nice day for a walk."

Stepping out of the car onto the street, Dean felt a sheen of sweat threaten to break out over his forehead. It was hot and there didn't seem to be a piece of foliage in sight to lessen its effects. He refused to wipe his brow, though; he'd never give Sam the satisfaction.

"Kind of looks like someplace we would have lived," Sam commented quietly, sympathy veiled in his words.

"Even Dad had better class than this," Dean countered, moving toward the sidewalk.

Sam fell into step beside him, his eyes still scanning the vacant street.

"What's the address again?" Dean asked, hoping to take his mind of the fact that Sam was probably right. Their childhoods had been spent in and out of seedy motels and rundown apartments. Occasionally they took up residence in vacant houses, effectively squatting in them until the hunt necessitated a move. Dean didn't doubt that part of Sam's quest for "normal" involved living in a place that didn't have cockroaches coming out of the walls.

That was something even Dean could contend would have been nice. Too bad the budget didn't permit it.

"210 Walnut," Sam said, looking at his paper. "You have your notebook?"

Dean pulled the small notebook from his back pocket and flashed it at his brother. "Out and ready," Dean said. The notebook seemed superfluous--Dean would remember any really important facts, but at least this time Sam hadn't made him play dress up.

Sam stopped them in front of a white house. The shutters were blue and peeling, one hanging precariously forward on a strained nail. The small yard was encased in a simple wire fence, enclosing a multitude of toddler toys. "This is it," he said, more than a slight hint of hesitation in his voice.

Dean didn't know quite why his brother would hesitate, but at this point, he didn't care. The sun was hot, the air was stifling, and just wanted to get out of here as fast as he could. "Let's just do this," he muttered, stalking quickly up the driveway, Sam quickly on his heels.

The concrete stoop was cracked and sagging, and Sam had to stand on the lower step as Dean took up the majority of the landing. There was a crooked and faded welcome sign on the other side of the screen, but Dean didn't exactly feel welcomed.

It didn't matter. They had work to do, and not much ever kept them from doing it.

Dean rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who shrugged. Refusing to accept that they'd driven all the way out there for nothing, Dean tried again.

This time there was the sound of creaking footsteps. The doorknob moved, and the door cracked opened. Behind it, a young woman was staring up at them, her face scrunched with insecurity and cynicism.

"Yeah?" she asked with more than a hint of impatience. Clearly this girl didn't particularly relish the idea of company.

That was her problem, though, not Dean's. He didn't drive all the way out here to have the door shut in his face; it was time for some patented Dean Winchester charm.

"My name's Dean, and this is Sam," Dean began with a wide smile. "We're reporters with the Flat Rock Gazette. We were hoping to talk to Michael Whitefoot about his friend, Ryan."

She was staring at them intensely. Her brow furrowed. "Is this about the murders?"

The skepticism in her voice was evident, as was the hesitation. "The police are calling them attacks," Dean said, trying to gauge her response.

She remained mostly impassive, her uncertainty still strong. "So what does Michael have to do with it?"

Sensing her distrust of Dean's questioning, Sam inserted himself into the conversation. "We've learned that Michael and Ryan were close. We were just hoping Michael could give us some insight into who Ryan was. We're writing a piece that highlights the victims as people."

This seemed to soften her some. "That's a good idea," she said. "So many people are scared of what's happening that they forget that the people who died were people too. It's always death people want. They never want to know about life."

Sam smiled slightly, not to overplay his hand. "So do you think we could talk to Michael?"

Their success was short lived. Something clenched in her jaw and she looked away.

Dean studied at her, taking her in. She was young, but looked weary for her age. Her long black hair was tied up sloppily and her clothes were stained and ill fitting. "Are you his..." Dean hesitated.

She didn't even flinch. "His sister," she said. "Or one of them. He has quite a few." She offered a wry smile as she surveyed the lawn strewn with toys.

Dean kept his smile broad and inviting. "Do you think we could talk to him?"

She squinted at them, studying them in the sunlight. "Michael doesn't live here anymore," she said. "He moved out two months ago."

Before Dean could ask another question, another voice sounded from within the house. "Laurel, who's there?"

Laurel--as Dean deduced from her not-so-patience smile and the gritting of her teeth--barely had time to react before the door was wrenched back farther, and a little girl about eight years of age stood staring in fascination up at the brothers.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her long black hair was in twin braids, falling heavily down her back. Her dark eyes shone with excitement and curiosity.

The bluntness made Dean stutter. Lying to adults was easy. It wasn't so comfortable with children, not even for him. Normally, he had no qualms about it. He lied to do his job. It kept people safe, it kept him safe. But the openness, the trusting nature of a kid-it threw him completely.

He stole a glance at Sam and found the kid blushing, scratching the back of his neck while looking at his feet. His brother did not exactly enjoy this kidn of thing, either.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice their fumbling. They were too involved in social faux-pauxs of their own.

"Mia, that's not very polite," Laurel said evenly to the girl, being sure to make eye contact. Then she looked up. "Another one of Michael's sisters."

It was Sam who managed a smile and a polite nod.

"You're here to see Michael?" Mia asked, latching onto the new tidbit of information.

Dean turned on his charm again, hoping to put the young girl at ease despite her sister's warnings. "Sure. Can you help us?"

"Michael went to go find his destiny," the little girl piped up, her voice knowing and filled with awe.

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, before looking curiously back down at the little girl.

"Mia," the older girl hushed.

"He did," Mia insisted, her eyes wide as she looked back up at Sam and Dean. "He wanted to do good things, better things, but he couldn't do that here. It was too hard here. He needed a place where he could be with himself. So he could perform his vision quest."

"Stop being ridiculous," Laurel chastised, obviously trying to shoo her away.

"I'm not-"

Laurel shot the little girl a glare that effectively silenced her. "Look, don't mind Mia. She's just got a very active imagination," Laurel explained, a trace of apology in her voice.

Again, it was Sam who took the time to nod at her; Dean didn't spare the effort. Clearly Mia knew something, and they needed to zero in on her words. Children often were more forthcoming about the supernatural than adults. Adults, in their seemingly infinite wisdom, were far too quick to discredit children, but for the Winchesters, that wasn't a mistake they commonly made.

But Laurel did not want the conversation to happen. "It's a problem with most of my siblings."

"I didn't imagine it," Mia said insistently, her voice hurt and sharp. "You're just upset because Michael left, just like he said he would, and you should have stopped him."

"Mia, quiet," the older sister ordered.

"But Laurel-"

"Mia, go play now," she suggested harshly, with a stern stiffening of her brow.

The young girl looked cross, almost ready to protest, before she slinked out the door past Sam and Dean and into the cluttered yard.

Laurel waited until she was gone to smile up at them. "Kids believe the strangest things," she said, sounding almost wistful.

Sam smiled and Dean forced a chuckle, resisting the impolite urge to follow after the girl. But he figured that would only prompt suspicion from Laurel, which was something he didn't need. But his interest was piqued now--kids did believe the strangest things, often the things strange enough for adults to deny, even when they were true. Mia's outburst was raw enough, was real enough-maybe they were barking up the right tree.

"Why don't you come inside and we sit down?" Laurel suggested suddenly, as if she just remembered her manners.

Dean cringed internally, but Sam shot him a glare that subdued him into following Laurel to the living room. She sat herself in a faded chair, leaving the tattered couch for the brothers.

Sam settled back in the seat, and Dean tried to lean back but found himself feeling awkward.

"Sounds like she really looked up to Michael," Sam commented, trying to restart the conversation.

"Of course she did," Laurel said. "Michael is a very likable guy."

The tone of her voice was ambiguous, and they waited, but she didn't elaborate. "But...?" Dean asked.

She sighed, rolling her eyes some. "But nothing. He always wanted to do the right thing. It's just he didn't always go about it in the most practical way. And when there are six kids in the family, practical is kind of important."

Sam pursed his lips. "What do you mean?"

"Michael always had his own views on things," Laurel explained vaguely. "He was really adamant about it."

"About what?"

Laurel laughed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "The most random things. I mean, Mia wasn't making it all up. He was always talking about his destiny, about how he was going to attain it. He'd do anything for anyone-he just felt like it was his calling, like he was meant to help people. He was almost old fashioned about it, even talked about our ancestors and the ancient ways. He was always the one who wanted to study how things were, wanted to participate in the ceremonies-and Mia's right-he even wanted to do a vision quest."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What's a vision quest?"

She looked surprised. "A vision quest? It's like a...spiritual journey. A chance to commune with other spirits in nature. It's a ritual our tribe performed for centuries to enter manhood, to find one's spiritual connection and define oneself." She stopped with a shrug. "They've been mostly banned because of the drugs used for the ceremony. Seems like all we really did was get kids high."

"But Michael didn't think so?"

She sighed. "Michael just wanted something more. To be something better. It's been so hard since our father died. The kid has been trying to live up to all these expectations, and he just can't do it. He's a 19-year-old trying to play man of the house. He just thought that if he could get in touch with his inner strength that maybe he could do it better." She laughed humorlessly. "He thought he was meant to be more of a puma, not a field mouse."

"Have you talked to him recently?" Sam asked softly.

She shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. "No, he stopped returning our calls about a month ago." She paused and looked thoughtful. "Guess he got tired of trying at all," she said finally.

There was an awkward pause. Laurel's eyes were downcast and her expression vacant. Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Dean shrugged, letting Sam take the lead. Grieving and guilt-ridden types were always Sam's forte; Dean was better with the overburdened and sexy.

"I know this is difficult for you," Sam finally said.

Laurel's eyes flashed up at him, hesitant and hurt. "I just want things to get back to normal," she said.

"We're sorry to bother you," he apologized. "We'll be leaving."

She nodded, silently, not looking up as Sam rose. Dean hurried to follow, a bit perplexed by his brother's tactic. They still needed an address.

"Do you think you could give us Michael's address?" Sam asked, so gently, that the request seemed to be one of sympathy.

Laurel blinked, swallowing. "Yeah," she said. "He moved in the same building as Ryan. Ryan was his only friend. I even tried to go over because I was so worried about him-how he was coping and all, but nothing." She shook her head morosely. "I can't help him if he doesn't let me."

That was all they needed, and Dean knew it. Now it was time to extract themselves from this awkward family situation. Crying victims never really made him feel comfortable, and he didn't really have much patience when no one had even died in the family. Not that he begrudged her her tears, but that didn't mean he needed to sit there and hear them. "It's not your fault," Dean assured her. "There's not much you can do with little brothers when they've got their minds set on something."

Sam glared at him, albeit discreetly, and she smiled slightly, as though not sure what to make of his comment.

"Just give me a sec while I write it down," she said, disappearing down the hall.

Dean felt relieved that she was gone, that he could let up on his serious, sympathetic face for a second, but the relief was turned to annoyance when Sam slugged him in the arm.

"Hey," Dean complained.

"Try being a little sincere here, Dean," Sam admonished.

Dean tempered his look, the feelings of incredulity and annoyance coursing through him. Sam always wanted to _sympathize _with people, to hold their hand, to make things better. Dean just wanted in and out, clean and easy. Sometimes his brother could be such a _girl_.

Sam frowned back at him.

Dean raised his eyebrows in mock innocence.

Before their silent conversation could continue, Laurel came back into the room.

"There you go," she said, holding the paper out to Sam. "Good luck finding him."

Dean took that as their cue to leave. They had nursed as much information out of her as they would, they had the address-it was time to book. He pushed himself up, smiling conciliatorily. "Well, thank you very much for your time."

Sam followed his lead, also rising. "I know this has been difficult," he said. "Thanks for speaking with us about it."

She smiled a little. "Just don't make him look bad, okay?"

Dean stared at her, blankly for a moment, and Sam stammered next to him, before he remembered their cover story. "Right," Dean said quickly. "We're nothing if not professionals at the Flat Rock Daily News."

She cocked her head. "I thought it was the Gazette."

"We recently merged," Dean assured her quickly. He shook his head dismissively. "Name changes. You know--politics or something."

She looked confused.

Sam swooped in with a hand on her shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he said.

One look into Sam's eyes and her questions faded. "No problem."

Dean inched them to the door. Sam may be good at smoothing things over, but he certainly wasn't making headway on getting them out of there. "Look, thanks again, we'll call you if we need anything else," Dean said. What he lacked in subtlety, he made up for with efficiency, and he totally ignored Sam's discreet gaze of annoyance at him.

Nonetheless, his brother smiled one last time, murmuring a thanks, and allowed himself to be pulled outside, back into the blazing sun.

Relieved, Dean took a deep breath, only to turn around and be greeted by the curious and suspicious eyes of Mia.

"Are you really reporters?" she asked.

Dean grinned. "Of course we are, sweetheart." He held up his unused notebook. "See?"

Her eyes traveled from Dean to Sam and back again. "You don't _act_ like reporters."

"How do you know what a reporter should act like?"

She didn't seem to have an answer for that one, but she also didn't seem to really care. "Why do you want to find Michael?"

Dean's face softened and he dropped down to her level. "We think your brother might know some things."

Mia looked solemn. "He's really smart," she said. "He knows lots of things."

Sam plunked down next to him, using his most gentle voice for the girl. "What kind of things does he know, Mia?"

"He knows all about the old ways," she said. "He wanted to bring back times of peace and harmony."

The hope in her voice was evident, and Dean felt his heart clench. He could remember such hope in his little brother once upon a time, a hope that had driven him out the door, a hope that had nearly died with Jessica, a hope that had been practically burned with their father's corpse.

Dean shook away the memories. There wasn't time for that. "And how was he going to do that?" Dean prompted her.

"The vision quest," she said. "He studied it for so long. I asked if I could help, but he told me I was too young."

Dean smiled tightly, patting her gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure Michael will show you some day."

Standing, Sam following him up, the little girl's eyes followed him. "If you find Michael," she said, "will you tell him to come home?"

"Of course," Dean said.

At that, she smiled, trotting off into the yard.

Dean gave his brother a glance over his shoulder. Sam shrugged, and they made their way back to the car.

He waited until they were both settled in the car before he turned to his brother. "So what do you think?"

Sam sighed. "I think we need to try to find Michael."

Dean turned the key. "You know, you owe me money for gas."

Sam huffed in annoyance. "Just drive the car."

Pulling away from the curb, Dean muttered, "Cheapskate."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Not much new to say. Just a reminder of the late S2 context. Thanks :)

-o-

**Chapter Four**

Unlike Ryan, Michael appeared to be somewhat of a packrat, a messy one at that.

Michael's apartment was crammed, with piles of papers and open books stacked and piled throughout the place. On top of the books, in every nook and cranny, knickknacks lined the shelves and tables. Dirty dishes and crumpled trash seemed to complete the picture, strewn haphazardly over the dusty books and carved figurines. It was an odd assortment of things, some distinctively Native American, others somewhat young male.

But the thing that gave both brothers pause, before they could even step in the door, was the large, life-sized charcoal drawing of a puma on the wall right opposite the door.

It stopped them both dead in their tracks as they gawked.

"Well," Sam said finally as the brothers stared at it. "I think he had a thing for cats."

"You think?" Dean asked, finally moving. He picked up a cat figurine off the bookshelves, inspecting it, replacing it when he realized that nearly all the decorations were of the feline variety. Wild cats, house cats, big ones, small ones, porcelain, wood--anything and everything, all shapes and sizes and colors. "This is freakin' creepy."

Following his brother's lead, Sam crept farther into the stuffed apartment, trying to circumnavigate the cats to find something of substance. "He has an interesting taste in reading material," Sam noted, picking up a book splayed on the coffee table, tossing a stuff kitten to the side. "Native American history...spirituality...rituals. He was definitely interested in his heritage."

Dean disappeared into the kitchen, poking hesitantly through the piles of refuse. "Not much in the way of food in here," Dean said. "Judging from the amount of mold on the dishes, I'd say he hasn't been here in awhile."

Sam stood, reluctantly returning the open, dust-covered book to the table. Dean was right about the time—Michael clearly hadn't been there for a while. However, that didn't explain the strangeness of what he'd left behind. Papers covered the small dining table, scribbled and rumpled, notes circled and underlined. "He didn't seem to plan on leaving," Sam observed. "He left everything here."

Dean opened the fridge and made a face. "That's just _wrong_."

Sam glanced over his shoulder as he passed by. "Looks like something you'd keep around," he said.

He heard his brother close the door and could only imagine the glare his comment had elicited. He smiled despite himself.

Before Dean could mount any kind of feedback, a notebook caught Sam's eye. It was half buried under several small pouches, filled with herbs. Pulling it out, he looked at it. "Look at this," he said, holding out the notebook. "Notes on the benefits of a vision quest."

"And a list of ingredients," Dean noted, stepping closer and examining the notes.

Sam reached for one of the herb bundles, opening it and sniffing. "What if the kid's telling the truth? What if Michael did try to go on a vision quest? I mean, those things are designed to let you commune with animal spirits, and we do have a mysterious, untraceable puma on the loose."

"So what? He brought back a little cat friend to do some dirty work? I thought these things were about bettering oneself or something equally cheesy."

"Yeah, they're supposed to be," Sam agreed. His brain was working quickly as the facts slide into place. "But what if something didn't go right? Maybe we're looking at a quest gone wrong."

"Gone wrong how?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted hurriedly, but the animation in his disposition did not abate. "But it's a ritual, right? So if one of the steps is omitted or done wrong...maybe that could screw up the outcome, change it somehow."

Dean considered, with skepticism. "How can we know for sure?"

The question was enough to subdue Sam's growing anticipation at solving the hunt. He cocked his head, thinking. "We need to find out about the ritual, how it's done. Maybe then we can figure out where it can go wrong."

"But how are we going to find out how to do an ancient Indian ritual?"

The second after Dean asked the question, Sam could see the answer come to him. Sam just waited for it to settle across his face. "You still got your keys handy?"

Dean groaned. "Seriously?"

"Where else are we going to find someone who can tell us how to do one? And where else would Michael probably go but his own backyard?"

"But we just _came_ from the reservation," Dean protested. It was a useless gesture, and they both knew it, but that didn't dissuade either of them from indulging the habitual debate.

"Think of it this way," Sam said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. "At least this time we know where it is."

-o-

Frequenting reservations wasn't a common past time for them, but it certainly wasn't a foreign one either. Native Americans had their share of mythology, and the power of their curses occasionally still wreaked havoc on people today.

The reservation was situated at the end of a long, dusty road. There was no traffic to draw people to it, no casinos to make it more appealing. It was small and sparsely populated, seeming desolate and cramped all at once. Though they'd already been there once, it seemed lonelier this time, especially as they veered toward the middle of town and away from the residential area.

It wasn't so much the location that bothered Dean. He was used to a variety of places and a multitude of environments. And it wasn't the people in general at reservations. Dean had his share of prejudices, but none of them related to race. He couldn't stomach stupid people, just like he could stomach the self-righteous. It was just the strong undercurrent of spirituality, of some greater belief system that made him nervous, that gave him the same twinge of trepidation he felt whenever they had to enter a church.

They never failed to meet someone spiritual at a reservation, and that was usually the person they needed to talk to. While Dean would use anyone as a source of information if he needed to, it was people of strong faith and conviction that always made him uncomfortable. They were all so certain, so secure—so _trusting_ in something ambiguous and completely not able to be proven by common sense.

The fact that many of the ones they met were also certifiably insane didn't help matters any.

Much to Dean's chagrin, they also tended to be _useful_. Dean had to rely on freaks of all kinds in his line of work.

He would have really enjoyed snarking about this, letting some quip defuse some of the tension places and people like this tended to build in him, but Sam didn't really seem in the mood.

The kid was clearly taking this hunt far too seriously. For whatever reason, this one mattered to Sam, more than most of them did. He was invested, not just physically and mentally, but emotionally, which was always a dangerous thing when it came to his empathetic younger brother.

Because the closer Sam got to something, the harder he took the fallout. And it seemed like in their line of work, fallout was inevitable, and Dean did not relish picking bits of his baby brother off the floor any time soon. He'd been there, done that, more times than he wanted to remember. These days it seemed that Sam was desperate to save people, and it didn't help that this had been Sam's from the beginning.

Finding the old man had been easy. Everyone in town pointed nonchalantly to the barbershop, merely nodding at Dean's prodding for more information.

Sam merely shrugged, and the pair trudged their way to the barbershop.

He nudged Sam. "You know," he said. "While we're in there, maybe you could get a haircut."

Sam gave him a look of exasperation and annoyance. "Dean, we're on a job here."

"I know," Dean protested. "Might as well kill two birds with one stone."

The younger brother ignored him, shaking his head in disgust before shoving past his brother to open the door.

Any of Dean's quips were quelled when he stepped inside the barbershop. Giving Sam a hard time was enjoyable, no doubt, but the energy of the shop sucked all the air from his lungs. The place wasn't anything special—quite the contrary, it had clearly seen better days. The walls were covered with clapboard paneling, so dated that Dean couldn't imagine it had ever been in style. The dark wood mimicked the floor, which was made of long planks of warped wood. It was clean swept, but nothing could hide the scuffs and wear of age.

Light filtered in through the dusty windows, overpowering the overhead lights that glowed yellow with age. The walls were decorated with crooked frames, glazed with dust, housing pictures of landscapes and animals. There was a counter with an archaic cash register near the entry, flanked by old folding chairs. On the far wall was a row of mirrors and barber chairs, each small table adorned with the expected tools for a trim or shave.

It was midday, and Dean might have expected someone to be there. For socializing, at least. Small town folks liked to talk, he found, even if they didn't need a haircut. That was the kind of thing that usually happened in close knit communities.

In this one, however, there was just one man, most certainly their prospective source.

The man was old, his face wrinkled and wizened. His white hair fell to his shoulders, where it brushed the top of his plaid flannel shirt, which looked oddly like something Sam would wear. His jeans hid the tops of his boots, and he sat with his feet crossed in front of him.

Seated in the middle barber chair, he was simply staring, fixing both brothers with a gaze so intense that Dean felt out of place. The look was penetrating, deep; it was as if he'd been expecting them.

Glancing at his brother, Dean could tell the effect the old man was having on his brother. Sam looked skittish, too much like an animal caught in the headlights. That was enough to prompt Dean to act. No matter how he felt, he had to look out for Sam. He wasn't about to let some weird old guy get the better of them.

A grin plastered on his face, Dean stepped forward. "Someone told us you might be able to help us," he said, his tone easy and friendly—over the top, maybe, but that was as much for Sam as it was for anyone else.

The man hardly looked surprised. "What makes you think I can help you?" he asked neutrally.

Dean swaggered forward, and he felt his brother on his heels. "Well, we asked for someone who could help us for a paper that we're trying to write," Dean explained. It was an blatant lie, one that he hadn't even had to think twice about. "We have to write about Native American rituals, and no matter where we looked we couldn't find anything about vision quests."

Leaning back, the man frowned a little. "Vision quests? They're archaic. Not done anymore."

Dean reined in his urge to roll his eyes. Oblivious was one thing; cryptic was another. His patience was already thin in this hunt, and this old dude was definitely pushing it. Sam, however, was Sam, so it only went to figure that that ambiguity would be the thing to break Sam out of his apparent stupor.

His younger brother stepped up, even with Dean, and met the man's eyes and even Dean could sense the connection between them. Sam swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing, before he finally spoke. "If someone wanted to do one, though, how would it be done?"

The man's eyes narrowed. "Why did you say you wanted to know again?"

"Paper," Dean replied quickly, making sure to put on his most sincere face. "On Native American rituals."

Pursing his lips, the man leaned back considering. "Why didn't you just pick a rain dance or something? Much more dramatic, don't you think?"

Dean suppressed another sigh, but, again, Sam didn't rise to the bait. It seemed as though Sam's initial discomfort was gone. It was replaced with an unsettling intensity that Dean regarded cautiously. If Sam noticed, he didn't say anything. The younger Winchester instead leaned in, making sure he maintained eye contact, and said, "The vision quests have deep spiritual significance, don't they? They're part of finding oneself. I think that's a lot more dramatic than any rain dance."

Sam's gaze was working its magic. The old man studied Sam appraisingly, leaning back in his seat with a small sound of disapproval. "You're stubborn."

Sam didn't waver, and Dean felt the need to interject—no one could call his brother stubborn but him. "He's a bit of an overachiever."

The man's attention shifted to Dean, and the annoyance and skepticism that came with it was surprising. It was almost like the old guy was seeing Dean for the first time—as though Dean had not been there at all and definitely not a part of whatever exchange was going on between the man and his brother. The man sighed. "People think they're just drug-induced highs," he said.

"But they're not," Sam prompted, oblivious in his own right to Dean and his interjection.

Dean shot him a glare, but Sam didn't even look at him. The man's attention had turned back to his brother, and Dean suddenly felt very out of place.

The man quirked his lips in a smile. "They may be what we think they are," he replied cryptically. "Most things in life are nothing more and nothing less than that."

"So if someone wanted to learn more about their destiny, they could go on one, and find answers," Sam continued, completely undeterred.

The man's face smoothed somewhat as he seemed to relax. "Rarely does one find answers to anything in life. Just more questions."

"Then what's the point? Can a vision quest help someone change their destiny, discover something to help fight it, make it better?"

Dean glanced again at Sam, this time nervously, noticing the serious and pressing timbre of his voice. Sam's eyes were wide and focused, and Dean's nerves heightened. His instincts to protect Sam were flaring; though there was no physical danger, the emotional kind was closing in, and Dean didn't want Sam to go there. After all, he could patch Sam up with the best of them, but helping Sam cope with the burdens on his mind was harder than Dean cared to admit.

The man merely stared back at Sam's undeterred gaze. "Destiny is not man's to change. It is merely his to meet."

Sam looked confused.

With a small smile, the man nodded gently. "One should never go through life thinking they can change what's meant for them. They must only learn to change themselves in response to it. That is all a vision quest is, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. A chance to understand one's place in nature, to find one's peace with that. Because there is always an option for peace."

The tension in Sam's body was so strong that _Dean_ felt it, and that _wasn't_ okay. The old guy didn't seem to be trying to upset or rile his brother, but he seemed intent on something. Whatever it was, Sam seemed to have no defense against it. It was time for Dean to exercise his big brother prerogative and take back control of the conversation. "So would it be possible to screw one up, to do it wrong?" Dean asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to comfortable territory.

The man didn't seem to hear him at first, his eyes still locked on Sam. The intensity in his gaze wavered after a moment and he looked back at Dean and shrugged noncommittally. "They're complicated and serious. If done by an untrained person, even with the best of intentions, it's possible. Probably part of the reason why they're not done anymore. Too risky."

Dean nodded. "And how would you fix it?"

"Well if they're not done anymore, there's really no need to fix them, is there?"

Dean pursed his lips and nodded. Some people could never make things easy. Instead it was like pulling teeth, making sure to ask the right questions at the right time so as to elicit the exact information, or enough of it to go off of. It was necessary work, sometimes easier than others, and this was definitely not ranking high on his list of fun interviews.

His younger brother was still standing stiffly, eyes still stuck on the man, his feet planted in the floor. His focus was singular. "Do you think we could have a copy of one?"

It would certainly make their lives easier if the old man coughed a copy up. If the ritual was the source of all this mess, then they'd need a more accurate version to go off of than Michael's scrawled out version.

"There are no modern translations," the man said, his eyes narrowing toward Dean.

Sam quickly interjected. "Just for authenticity's sake."

At that, the man laughed, the lines around his eyes dancing with an unexpected humor. "Authenticity's sake," he murmured. Then he nodded, pushing himself up out of his chair. "Of course for authenticity," he mused, rummaging through a stack of books on the shelf behind the counter.

Sam and Dean both watched, hesitantly, as the man leafed through several of the volumes, murmuring to himself. With a sideways glance, Dean appraised his brother. The kid seemed more relax now, but hardly at ease. Whatever weird connection Sam seemed to have had with the man was at least abating somewhat.

Finally, after several moments, he turned around, holding out a well-worn looking piece of paper. "There," he said.

Somewhat reluctantly, Sam reached out, to grasp the paper.

The man pulled it away, cocking his head slightly. "These are not to be treated lightly," he warned.

Grinning widely, Dean replied, "You can trust us. We just want our A."

The man ignored him, instead letting his eyes meet Sam's with an intensity that made Sam freeze all over again. Dean shifted uncomfortably. The man simply said, "It's just a question of destiny. Don't forget that."

With that, he proffered the paper again, directly at Sam, who was too stunned to accept it.

Reaching over, Dean plucked the paper, effectively breaking whatever silent communication was passing between his brother and the man. "Destiny. Serious. Got it."

Sam blinked, seeming to shake himself out of his reverie. "Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah." He flashed an embarrassed smile.

Dean took Sam's behavior to mean an exit was necessary, whether the kid realized it or not. "Well, I think we have what we need," he said, patting Sam purposefully on the arm. "We'll get out of your hair now."

Though Sam was physically following his brother, it was as if the action was unconscious, mere instinct. His little brother's focus was still clearly torn. "Thank you, Mr...?"

The man looked perturbed, almost disappointed. "Just Elliott."

Sam smiled and nodded. "We really appreciate your help."

Dean was already at the door, hand on the knob—he had had his fill of metaphysical theory for the day. He just wanted to get the facts and get out. Now that they had the ritual in hand and the basics of the ritual confirmed, they were ready for the next step of the investigation.

He sighed, waiting for Sam, who was following him somewhat reluctantly. Given his little brother's line of questioning, he was beginning to doubt Sam was fully focused on the case at all. The sooner he could get Sam out of here, the sooner he could redirect Sam's focus on the hunt, and the sooner he could avoid all the philosophical babble that he knew could erupt from Sam's mouth.

He'd managed to herd Sam half way out the door, when the man's voice stopped them. "They're serious, you know. You can't enter one lightly. You may be entering a spiritual realm, but it still has the ability to wreak havoc on this world."

The words made Sam stop, made him look curious enough to go back, so Dean smiled and blurted out a thank-you, pulling himself and his brother into the sunlit day.

-o-

Dean's pace was quick and purposeful, quickly leading Sam away from the building. Sam, for his part, used his long legs to keep pace, but kept sparing backwards glances.

"That old dude spends way too much time just sitting around and thinking," Dean said with a shake of his head, not even pausing to look back.

"What does that mean?"

Dean made a sound of mocking. "Seriously, man. Vision quests? Finding one's destiny?" Dean paused, letting his cynicism hang in the air. He crinkled his nose. "It's all crap."

At this, Sam scoffed, brushing past Dean to keep moving ahead. "Yeah, you would think so."

"No, I'm serious," Dean said, following his brother and falling in stride with him. "I mean, all this crap just to change something that probably can't be changed anyway? Come on, man, that's weak."

Sam shook his head, laughing a little. "That's easy for you to say," he said.

"What?"

Sam didn't slow. "You heard me."

Dean grabbed Sam's arm, pulling his brother to face him. "What the hell does that mean?" he asked, incredulously.

Glancing away, Sam took a steadying breath. "Just forget it."

"No, you started this," Dean said. "You think I don't get what this is about?"

"No, Dean, I just don't think you know what it's like to have something terrible in your future and to have no way to avoid it. All Michael wanted to do was to make things better, and you can't blame him for that."

"And you think you need to go on vision quests and have personal vendettas to change the future? That it'll help?"

"It can't hurt," Sam snapped.

"No, but it misses the point, don't you think?" Dean paused as Sam stared at him, and Dean measured his words carefully. Sam needed to get this through his thick skull. "Destiny's crap, man. We all get to have our say."

"Just like Michael got to have his say in all this? He was just a kid who wanted something better, and he may be the cause of this entire hunt."

"Michael started the vision quest. For all we know, he _wanted_ this to happen."

Sam refused to be convinced. "Yeah, well, what about everyone else who has been driven to do evil by some supernatural force? What about them, huh? What about their destiny?"

"The crap life throws at you and destiny are different things," Dean said pointedly. "You need to accept that."

Sam just shook his head. "Does it matter what you call it? In the end, it's just stuff you can't fight."

"Well, with an attitude like that, you'd be screwing yourself over," Dean said, his voice steady and his gaze penetrating.

For that, Sam didn't have a comeback, and Dean watched as his brother seemed to shrink into himself. A pang of guilt shot through him—it never felt good to make his brother feel like that—but he could not deny a certain amount of relief that Sam had given up his argument.

He could deal with a lot, but he needed Sam with him—completely. If Sam was distracted by empathizing with the victims, it meant his focus wasn't fully on the case where it needed to be. That was always a risky thing, and Dean did not relish emotional conversations with his brother. Besides, Sam's attitude was borderline defeatist as it was. Sam's drunken elicitation still weighed heavily on Dean, and recent events certainly weren't convincing Sam of his own innocence. He was _not _going to kill Sam, and he needed Sam to believe in himself or Dean didn't know what he'd do.

Shoulders slouched, Sam's eyes were still dark, but he swallowed, and Dean could see his brother willing himself to let it go, to refocus his thoughts. "The stuff on Michael's table—there were herbs, things like that," he said. "Could be the stuff for the ritual. We can check out Michael's place again and see what he was using and compare it to what Elliot showed us and maybe figure out what went wrong."

The hunt was nothing more than a temporary distraction. Dean knew his brother well enough to know that the thoughts and fears concerning destiny were not gone. Knowing Sam, they were merely simmering beneath the surface, hiding under the guise of productivity in order to avoid being dealt with at all. For as much as Sam liked to seem like an open book, when it came to his fears and sorrows, Sam could be quite tight lipped at times. Sometimes that was okay with Dean--he really didn't know how to talk to Sam about personal stuff most of the time anyway--but things like this? Evil destinies? Uncontrollabe fates? That was the kind of stuff that could make Sammy implode from the inside out. The kid was flailing as it was. Dean would have to do something about it sooner or later--for both their sakes.

Right now, it had to be later. He gave a terse nod. "Okay, then," he said. "Let's go."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Last chapter before things really start happening. Thanks to those who review--it means a lot :) Continued thanks to sendintheclowns and Rachelly, who are my cheerleaders extraordinaire. Even when I don't like what I write, they always seem to. All other notes in chapter one.

-o-

**Chapter Five**

Dean was his brother, which meant that fighting and nitpicking were inevitable. His brother loved him, and Sam loved his brother, but sometimes being together all the time made things hard, especially when they didn't see eye to eye.

Which, lately, seemed to be more often than either of them wanted to acknowledge.

They were just very different people—that much was plainly obvious in the simplest of situations. And Sam's "destiny," or whatever it was, was most definitely not simple.

Dean's attitude about it all did more than just grate on his nerves—it perplexed him. Dean always wanted to shove Sam's worries aside, to ignore them as if they were nothing. As if Dean didn't remember what had happened in the cabin, what had happened in the car. As if Dean himself would have been dead if not for a deal their father made. As if Dean didn't remember being shot and beaten by his own brother. Dean told him these things weren't his fault, that they didn't mean anything, but Sam knew he was wrong.

They were more or less defenseless against the Demon and whatever it had in store for them, yet Dean treated it all like it was nothing to be concerned about. Like Sam was crying over a lost toy or a scraped knee.

Then again, that really was Dean's way. His way of coping. His way of trying to make it all right. As if all they had to do was just believe it was okay, pretend it was okay, and eventually it would be.

Looking back at his life, Sam had to admit that it'd worked—in the short term, anyway. But things had a tendency to catch up with them, which Sam knew the hard way.

After all, he'd pretended not to notice that his mother died in _his _nursery. They never talked about that, no one ever said _anything_--what it was, how it happened--anything. That had been enough to make Sam doubt--enough to make him be afraid. He ran all the way to Stanford to get away from that, to get away from who he was, from his family.

It found him in the end. Jessica had died because of it.

Now their dad was dead too, with nothing to his name except two sons, a FBI file, and a secret. Sam had tried running from it. He had tried pretending that it would all work out in the end. It hadn't worked; in fact, it had made them nothing if not _more_ vulnerable. Now he just wanted to face it, no matter what Dean seemed to think.

Dean's intentions were good, but ignoring the Demon wouldn't make him go away. Pretending like it wasn't happening wouldn't make Sam's destiny any less evil, it wouldn't save Sam at all.

No, Sam needed to stay active, to keep fighting.

That meant hunting. That meant finding evil and eradicating it. That meant saving people. That meant staying sharp, staying focused. Being prepared.

That meant figuring out what was happening to these people in Flat Rock and what Michael Whitefoot had to do with it.

Luckily the locks were cheap in Michael's apartment building and there was no security to speak of, so no one even saw them as they sneaked back in.

Sam took a beeline to the kitchen counter, sifting through the piles found there. He remembered Michael's notes—the herbs were one piece of evidence, but he needed to know what Michael knew, just how far he'd taken it. That was the only way to retrace the kid's steps.

"Here," Sam said, picking up a pile of scribbled notes. "Look at this."

Dean was busying poking critically at items strewn on the kitchen table. "Find something?"

"They're his notes, just like we saw before. But now that we've seen the real thing, you can tell these look like the notes to perform the ritual," Sam said, studying them as he joined Dean in the kitchen. "Definitely looks like the Native American language Elliott used."

"Well, he's been doing some unusual shopping," Dean added, nodding toward the table. "These definitely are some pretty unusual herbs—not the kind of stuff you'd be buying at Wal-Mart."

"So he did do the ritual," Sam concluded, thoughtfully, his eyes looking again at the paper in his hands. Suddenly he stopped, his forehead creasing more. "Wait a second," he muttered. Something was off...something was...

"What?"

"Where's the copy of that ritual we borrowed?" Sam asked, his eyes still fixed on the scrawling handwriting on the sheet in his hands.

Dean groped through his pockets before extracting the document Elliot had lent them. "Find something?"

"Maybe," Sam said, holding the original copy with Michael's notes. Then he paused and shook his head. "He did it wrong."

Dean moved closer, looking over Sam's shoulder.

"He did it wrong," Sam repeated. "He must have copied this, but he copied it wrong. He left out an entire section. No wonder it didn't work."

"So he starts the ritual, but doesn't finish it."

"At least not properly."

"And he loses control," Dean concluded. "Must have summoned some freaky cat spirit and somehow it took control of him instead of helping him become more of a man or whatever it was he was trying to do"

"It would explain why no one's seen him lately," Sam added.

"And why witnesses say it looks part man, part cat. Maybe the thing's possessing him in a way, a merging of some kind."

"Yeah, but how do we undo it?" Sam asked. "We need to get Michael back to normal so he stops hurting people."

Dean shrugged. "We finish it."

Sam cocked his head at his brother. "You think it's that simple?"

Dean shrugged. "Why not? Michael only made it part way through, right? So we just restart the ritual and finish it for him."

Sam raised his eyebrows, considering this course of action. Dean's solutions always tended to be more simplistic than not, but that didn't make him wrong.

Moreover, it's not like he had any brilliant ideas. "It's a place to start."

With a cocky grin, Dean shrugged. "And I didn't even have to go to college."

"We'd have to do it exactly," Sam stressed, purposefully ignoring his brother. "Or we'd run the risk of making it worse."

Dean rolled his eyes, refocusing himself in exasperation. "We've got bigger things than that to start off with," Dean pointed out. "Like where did he do it? To give room for all the spirits, he'd need someplace big--bigger than this apartment."

Sam looked thoughtful, then groped in his back pocket for the newspaper clipping that had brought them here in the first place. "Well, he'd choose someplace familiar, right?"

"Sure," Dean agreed.

Sam splayed the newspaper in front of him, scanning the article. "Wait a second," he muttered. "Can you get me a phone book?"

Groping through the cabinets, Dean found one and gave it to his brother, who flipped to the map immediately.

"What about where he worked? Gilberts Paper Warehouse. It's a central location to all of the attacks."

"And Ryan was found there."

Sam nodded. "And they both worked as part time security guards."

Nodding, Dean's mind worked. "The messages on Ryan's machine..."

"What if Ryan was helping Michael prepare?"

"And then Michael loses control..."

"The puma takes over..."

"And Ryan's the first victim and the only backup he may have had is dead now," Dean concluded. He shook his head. "So much for the best laid plans."

Sam sighed at the grimness of their conclusions.

"Dude," Dean said, nudging him slightly. "What's wrong with you?"

"Even if we do finish this, it doesn't change the fact that Michael will have to live with what he's done."

Dean shrugged, a bit callously. "He's the one who started it."

Sam just shook his head, looking down at the scribbled notes again. "The guilt he'll feel though…I don't know how he'll recover from it."

"Yeah, well, that's not really our problem," Dean said easily.

Looking up, Sam shot Dean an annoyed glare.

"What?" Dean asked with a feigned innocence. "Our problem right now is to stop this thing before it kills someone else. That's our job, and I intend to get it done. We'll deal with Michael and his crisis of conscience later."

Sam didn't reply and didn't look up again, just let his eyes linger on the page. He could almost feel Michael through it, feel his hope, his purpose, and Sam didn't know how to deal with that.

"Come on," Dean said, nudging him again. "Let's grab some of his supplies and head out."

Too worn out to argue, Sam sighed, pocketed Michael's notes, and went about sifting through the lesser known herbs on the kitchen table.

-o-

They waited until nightfall, using the shroud of darkness to keep them hidden and capitalizing on the prime time for ghosts to come out and play. They needed to be fast and efficient, and the night provided less distraction and a higher likelihood of success. It's not like they really valued their sleep much anyway.

Stepping out of the car, Sam felt his muscles ache. His body was exhausted, he was pretty sure. He hadn't been sleeping much at all lately and the way this hunt was heading, it wasn't exactly calming his nerves any.

Sam always wanted to believe in something greater, in some sort of cosmic plan. Because of that, he wanted to see signs, see things as if they were meant to be. Signs that he'd be okay, that he could be redeemed, that they'd make it out alive and well from this quest for vengeance.

Too bad all the signs were pointing in the opposite direction. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of his destiny. Of good people going bad. Of good intentions getting screwed up. Of people being used against their will.

His innate connection to Michael scared the crap out of him, but he couldn't keep himself from seeing it. It was everywhere. The kid just wanted to be better, to do the right thing, yet the deck was stacked against him, and he was probably on a homicidal rampage. If they solved this case, if they brought Michael back, Sam could only imagine the weight that would rest on the young man's shoulders. He'd never be the same.

Sam knew that feeling. Knew it as well as a lost week and a killing rampage of his own.

Dean told him it wasn't his fault.

He glanced over at his brother, piling out of the driver's side and squinting up at the stars.

Dean told him a lot of things, a lot of them well-intentioned lies.

And if all of that wasn't enough, Dean seemed hell-bent on getting them on every wanted poster in the country. Sam had enough to worry about with the possible damnation of his soul, and Dean certainly didn't make the load any lighter by putting their legal status in any more jeopardy.

He sighed a little, pulling his EMF out of his pocket. Dean was oblivious to some things, and acutely attuned to others. Sam just wished sometimes his brother would divert his attention from his potentially evil little brother and focus on his own legally ambiguous behavior for once. Sometimes they had to take chances; sometimes they didn't. Dean didn't seem to care either way.

Dean was approaching the building, his gait slow and steady. Sam followed behind, flicking the small device on and watching it flare to life. The lights flashed loud and the device buzzed with intensity.

With activity like that, there was no explanation other than paranormal activity.

"This place is still off the charts with EMF," Sam said, turning off the detector.

"Well that would make sense," Dean said. "If he did the ritual here, the spirit might still be somewhat centralized here, which is why all the attacks take place in the area."

It was definitely their place. Sam sighed a little, pocketing the device. "So, Michael's probably around here—somewhere."

Dean scrunched his nose, milling around the perimeter of the building. "Maybe," he said. "But who knows where these things go when they're not attacking people."

It was so simplistic, so real, that Sam wondered briefly how no one had figured it out, how no one had put it together. Ryan's death, Michael's disappearance—they were linked, the signs were so obvious, if anyone had cared to look.

But Michael and Ryan were nobodies. Kids from the middle of nowhere, working nothing jobs in the city. They may have had each other, they may have been missed when they didn't show up, but beyond that, they were anonymous. Michael could have all the dreams in the world, all the plans and hopes, but in the end, there was one important thing he didn't have: someone to look out for him.

No one to keep him on the straight and narrow. No one to even notice when he was missing. No one to track him down and make sure he was okay. His family may have loved him, maybe even missed him, but they weren't there for him like he needed.

Sam's jaw clenched and he looked at his brother, feeling more than a little grateful. That was the reason he'd asked Dean to watch out for him, to stop him. It had come out wrong, harsh and fatalistic, but the sentiment was true. If he couldn't stop himself, he'd want someone to do it for him. There was no one else to do that but Dean.

Dean turned from a darkened window. "So, we come back tomorrow night, finish the ritual and be done with it."

Sam chewed his lower lip, refocusing his efforts on the hunt. "How are we going to get rid of security? We know they have at least one night watchman."

Dean seemed to consider this. "Sounds like it's time to give our good friend Elizabeth a call. See if she can help us out with who's on the schedule and how to get them _off _the schedule."

Sam didn't really have the strength to be incredulous. His brother's abilities were good, but it was his confidence that knew no bounds. If Sam knew anything, if there was a Dean, there was a way. "Fine," Sam acquiesced. "You can be in charge of security, I'll get the ritual in order and ready to go."

Moving back to the car, Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Someday, Sammy, I'm going to have to teach you a lesson on how to have _fun_."

Sam just rolled his eyes and followed his brother to the car.

-o-

Finding Elizabeth was easy. He'd gotten her personnel data from sweet talking the secretary and posing as Elizabeth's cousin Joe Bob who was desperately looking to reconnect with his long lost relative after spending ten years taking care of their dying grandmother in the arctic reaches of northern Canada.

He'd just kept his accent strong, his story unapologetic and dared her to call him on it.

Address in hand, it wasn't hard to find Elizabeth's place. That was nothing more than basic navigation. Sitting in his car in front of her building, he knew that the only trick of this would be getting through front door without looking like a stalker. He wasn't worried or anything—his natural charms were impressive even to himself, but it did require a little finesse, a little careful maneuvering.

Normally, Dean wouldn't care. A plain old hookup was without pressure or expectation. While he'd liked Elizabeth, this wasn't a simple attempt to get laid. This was an important set up for the hunt to come. He needed to clear the way for tonight--for his safety, for Sam's--and so getting in Elizabeth's good graces was imperative.

Getting out of the car, he checked the address once more as he mounted the steps to her duplex. The unit was small and dingy, a faded adobe in the desert sun. The yard was a mess of sand and scraggly weeds. The desert was nothing if not barren; this town didn't stand a chance of looking anything less that desolate.

Ringing her bell, he shuffled his feet, taking a few breaths while he heard the sound of footsteps from within. The door opened, and Dean met a rather disheveled looking Elizabeth with a wide, irresistible grin.

She looked startled, then perplexed, then embarrassed. She was clad in a pair of workout shorts and a faded t-shirt. Her hair was loose around her shoulders. "Um, hi," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "What are you—what are you _doing _here?"

He counted on the fact that his smile was disarming and that his lies were too smooth to be detected. Besides, flustered and blustered, Elizabeth was an easy mark.

"Well," he said, shrugging his shoulders invitingly. "I got to thinking after we'd left this morning that maybe you could tell me a little more about Ryan. It's just—been so long since I'd seen him, and I just—well, really wanted to know more about him."

She raised her eyebrows, her expression somewhere between suspicion and bemusement. "I told you, I didn't know him well."

Dean nodded. "Well, maybe if we sit down, have something to drink...then maybe I can jog your memory?"

A smile twitched on the edges of her lips. "Are you hitting on me by using your dead cousin's memory?"

Widening his eyes in mock indignation, Dean scoffed. "It just seems like meeting you under these circumstances—a little coincidental, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed, sparking with humor. "I don't really believe in coincidence."

Dean cocked his head. "Neither do I."

With a grin on her face, she pressed her lips together, the blush deepening on her cheeks. "Why don't I get changed?" she suggested, glancing up at him. "Then maybe we can go for a drive and see what comes to mind."

"I'll be right here," Dean said.

Elizabeth disappeared into the house and Dean just shook his head. Some things were just too easy.

-o-

Sam was angsting.

Sitting alone in the motel room, he was far too aware of that. Dean chided him about it, his father had all but ignored it while he did it, and Sam himself knew it was a bad habit. He just couldn't help it, not on a hunt, not with all the crap that was weighing on his mind.

This hunt, Michael—they reminded him too much of himself, and he just couldn't get it out of his mind. Dean had made the connection, and Sam couldn't deny it, not really anyway. Everything these days seemed to be a sign—a bright neon light saying EVIL and pointing directly at Sam Winchester. He couldn't change that, but he could channel it. He could use his anxiety to make sure the world was a better place, a safe place, to make sure he was doing everything he needed to do.

Besides, Sam liked to be careful. He was thorough, meticulous. His father had always appreciated _that_ much about him, even if everything else just seemed to set him off. Research had been Sam's only niche in his teen years, one that he was sometimes content to occupy, and those were the peaceful times.

But it was never enough. Not for their father.

God forbid Sam should ever want something _more_.

God forbid Sam didn't want to hunt.

Just God forbid.

Sam sighed, scrubbing a hand over his weary face. The memories got him nowhere. His entire life was a string of unpleasant memories and hard to swallow burdens.

He didn't need that now—the hunt was more important. His dad would have given anything to see him thinking like that.

A rueful smile on his face, Sam adjusted the computer screen again, to get a better view in the dim room.

He needed to check the facts, make sure they weren't missing anything about vision quests. The last thing he wanted was to walk into a situation unprepared. Dean had run his errand to get the scoop on the nightshift, and Sam wasn't sure he _wanted_ to know what he was doing to find out.

Pushing the rather unpleasant images out of his head, Sam focused. Queasiness aside, he had bigger issues to deal with.

There was a rustling at the door and Sam looked up in time to see Dean breeze through it. With a dramatic sigh, Dean flopped back on his bed, folding his arms behind his head and leaning against the headboard.

Sam waited expectantly.

Dean settled in contentedly, apparently oblivious to his brother's expectations. Well, not oblivious, more like purposefully tormenting him, which seemed pretty typical.

"So?" Sam finally prompted.

"So what?" Dean asked, reaching out to snag the remote.

Sam grabbed it first, holding it back. "So did you get the place taken care of?"

Dean looked hurt. "Dude," he said. "Do you even have to ask?"

His stomach churning, Sam ignored him. "I was just trying to get some last minute details worked out."

Yawning, Dean nestled deeper into the bed. "What's to prepare? We have the supplies, we have the ritual, and we have the go ahead for tonight. This thing will be over and done with tonight."

Dean's logic was certainly reasonable, but Sam couldn't buy it. Vigilance and being proactive were the only ways to make sure things would be okay; they were his only defense. Straightening, he leaned over the laptop again. Dean could rest if he wanted; Sam would prepare.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I hope this chapter reads a bit more excitingly. It should be picking up from here on out :)

-o-

**Chapter Six**

By the time midnight rolled around, Dean was ready to be done. He'd watched Sam fiddle around the room all day, which made him feel like he needed to be doing something, when all he really wanted to do was sleep. Or eat. Or watch mindless TV. He wasn't picky.

So to finally be loading the car, while it may not have seemed like much, was a needed relief. _Doing _something was better than watching his little brother's OCD tendencies.

Not to mention that the sooner they were done with this hunt, the sooner they could move on. There was just something about this one—something about the kid they were hunting, about the way Sam related to it—it was making Sam damn near impossible to live with. The kid was about to positively explode with the brooding.

So it seemed to be time for some big brother intervention. Trying to cajole Sam out of it would probably just make the kid sulk more. Therefore, complaining was his best course of action. If he was negative, Sam, true to his contrary nature, would have to be positive.

"I can't _wait_ for this to be over," Dean muttered purposefully as he exited the door.

Sam was leaning over the trunk, arranging something. "It's just a hunt, Dean," Sam said, just as Dean expected. "Part of the job."

"Well, it sucks," Dean said, depositing his bag in the car. "Some kid wants to get in touch with his inner cat and we have to come in to save him from being a mass murderer."

"It's not like he meant for this to happen," Sam said.

"Yeah, but he's the one who messed with this crap in the first place."

Sam's voice sharpened. "He just wanted to change his destiny, Dean. To be a better person. There's nothing wrong with that."

Dean stopped at the tone of Sam's voice and looked into his brother's eyes, noting the seriousness that lingered there.

"What?" Sam demanded.

"You sure we're still talking about Michael Whitefoot?"

Embarrassed, Sam looked away.

"Come on, Sam. You think I don't see what's going on here?"

His brother sighed shakily. "Come on, man," he said, a little fast, a little forced. "We've got work to do."

That was undoubtedly true, but Sam wasn't getting off the hook that easily. "You're nothing like him," Dean tried again, emphatically. "You know that right?"

Sam grimaced and then forced a smile. "Let's just do this, Dean."

There was a hint of pleading in his low voice, and Dean found he couldn't bring himself to deny it. No matter what their motives, what lurked beneath, right now they had a job to do.

Maybe saving Michael, finishing the hunt—maybe that would have a positive influence on Sam. It could only improve the kid's self-esteem and would surely assuage some of Sam's doubts that evil is inevitable.

That was enough for him. "Okay," he said with a nod.

Sam hesitated, and Dean almost flinched at how young Sam looked—how innocent, hopeful. Like he was trusting in Dean to make it right, make it better. "Okay," the younger brother replied finally, a little stronger now.

Dean slammed the trunk shut, and moved to the driver's side, digging the keys out of his pocket. Sam moved around the opposite side, opening the door, and Dean could feel his younger brother's eyes tracking him, watching him.

Without waiting, Dean opened the door and slid inside. The engine was rumbling to life when Sam sat down next to him. He gave his brother one last glance; the kid was staring out the windshield, an unreadable expression on his face.

Putting the car into reverse, Dean pressed his foot to the pedal, and pulled out.

-o-

The drive was silent. They'd already gone over the details of the hunt, and truthfully, Sam had nothing more to say. Nothing that Dean wanted to hear anyway. And Sam didn't want to hear any more lectures. He didn't want any more platitudes. He just wanted to save Michael, save more people. Maybe if he saved enough, he could save himself.

Dean didn't get that. Dean tried, but he couldn't get it.

Casting a discreet glance at his brother, he could tell that Dean wasn't up for much talking either. All of Sam's talk of destiny and of evil was a total buzz kill on Dean's buoyant personality. Dean was brooding as much as he ever could and had even neglected to blast the radio with some of his ridiculous mullet rock.

When they reached the warehouse, the parking lot was abandoned, just as they had anticipated. Whatever story Dean had fed to Elizabeth had worked.

As Dean slammed it into park, Sam felt his nerves prickle and he swallowed reflexively. He was taking a deep breath when his brother reached across the seat and opened the glove compartment.

Sam was curious only for a second before he realized what his brother was grabbing. "Whoa, you're not taking iron rounds, are you?"

Dean shrugged, pulling the gun free. "Why not? I want to be able to stop the thing if the hunt goes south."

"But it's not just a thing. You shoot it, you shoot Michael."

Dean just stared at him, waiting. "So?"

Sam's mouth dropped open. "So we're not just going to kill a kid."

The argument was a familiar one, the same one of ends and means that had plagued them whenever something human was put in danger. Sam had argued it in circles with Dean more times than he cared to remember. For Dean, this was one thing he could still see in black and white. Things that killed, things that caused destruction and pain—those things were evil. Evil could be killed, no questions asked. He'd learned that much from his father.

Sam simply couldn't buy it. Now more than ever. Not when he identified with Michael, could see himself in him at every turn. Putting a bullet in this kid would be like putting one in himself. Seeing Dean do it—well, it was another nail in Sam's coffin, another sign that evil is permanent and unavoidable, that his destiny was inescapable.

Dean studied him, his eyes tense, frustrated. Then Dean's expression slackened, almost in defeat.

To Sam's relief, Dean didn't try to argue the point. It was an argument his brother couldn't win, and Sam didn't want to expend the energy.

"We need to protect ourselves, Sam," Dean told him seriously, "first and foremost. Not to mention the rest of the town. If we don't stop Michael, someone else could die."

Sam refused to give in though, his eyes set and hard, flaring with a sympathy he knew Dean could see.

"Fine," Dean said finally, teeth clenched. "We'll do it your way."

Relief spread through Sam, but he didn't let it show. He stared at his brother, waiting, until Dean reluctantly put the gun back into the glove compartment.

Sam hesitated, just for a moment more, before he was satisfied. Then he opened his door and climbed out, heading to the trunk.

-o-

Dean watched his brother go, patiently.

He'd decided to placate Sam. Joking and distraction hadn't worked so far, so maybe telling the kid what he wanted to hear would work. There were simply some arguments he couldn't win, and, in the end, it didn't matter if Sam agreed with him or not. He'd still do what he had to do, and sometimes the less Sam knew, the better. He hated to admit that, but maybe John had been right about that one too.

But Sam had to believe it, and Dean would make sure he did. Just for his protection.

Dean waited until Sam was far enough away then took the weapon and pocketed it anyway. Sam's puppy dog eyes were compelling, but nothing was stronger than his need to protect his brother.

-o-

Dean guided them to the back of the building, sneaking along the wall, just below the defunct security camera. The company was small enough that the security system was nothing more than locks (because who wanted to steal paper anyway?), which Sam made short work of, while Dean kept out a cautious eye.

Once unlocked, they slipped inside, moving in the shadows throughout the warehouse, which was, thanks to Elizabeth, indeed abandoned. Not that he'd doubted her. After what he'd given her, he expected nothing less.

There was no question about it. He was good. Women could never resist his powers of persuasion.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sam thwapping him hard on the back of the head. "Are you paying attention?" his brother hissed.

Dean rubbed his head, glaring at his brother. "We don't have to whisper, you know," he said, making his voice purposefully loud.

Sam glared at him. "It doesn't hurt to be safe," he snapped, though Dean noted that his brother used his regular voice.

"You know I'm right."

"I know you're an ass."

Dean shrugged. "Same thing."

Sam rolled his eyes, shoving the backpack at him. "Just help out, would you?"

Sighing dramatically, Dean unzipped the bag, pulling some of the items out. "You sure these candles will work?"

Sam was studying the piece of paper. "I checked five times," Sam said. "They'll work."

"I think we probably could have gotten away with the dollar store ones," Dean pushed, glancing at his brother expectantly. Sammy only had so much patience, and he was pretty sure he'd just used up the last of it.

Sam, however, was decidedly too focused to be annoyed. Which Dean supposed was a good thing, really, but not nearly as fun. "We can't cut any corners, Dean," Sam admonished. "That's what got us here in the first place."

Dean just rolled his eyes and tried to contain his frustration. "Fine," he muttered. "Perfectionist freak."

Sam gave a lopsided grin, revealing one dimple, while his brother continued his preparations.

With a glower, Dean prodded his brother. "You just be sure you know that incantation. I would hate for it not to work because you say tomato and the spirits say tomahto."

"Dude, just worry about the candles."

"And the drums," Dean said with a twinkle in his eyes.

It was Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "And the drums."

Dean nodded in satisfaction, returning to his task. Sam, for his part, skimmed the verse in his hand again, going over the pronunciations.

Sam was usually the one who handled any kind of recitation, especially when it involved archaic and obscure languages. From an early age, it had always seemed to be a more intelligent aspect of hunting, one that could beat the bad guys without violence or guns.

Plus he was better than Dean at languages. He had taken what minor victories he could get as a child.

"You ready?" Dean asked, looking up from his crouched position on the floor. The candles were burning, their sweet incense filling the air and the shadows flickering across the shelves.

Sam took a deep breath. "As I'll ever be."

"Let's do this."

And with that, Dean began to pound, a slightly irregular and awkward beat. Sam listened, letting it find its groove, before he started to speak.

Sam was only two lines in when the temperature dropped and the air began to move. Sam hesitated, and Dean's rhythm stuttered, but they both forged on, even as a wind slowly picked up, teasing their hair and clothes.

The wind rose with the timbre of Sam's voice. Dean kept his beat strong and purposeful, and both boys could feel the spirits as they coalesced into the atmosphere.

Lights flickered, candles wavered. Then there were flashes, hazy patches of lightness that spotted the darkness. They were here.

Sam opened his mouth, standing cautiously, eyeing the forming spirits as they coalesced. Dean steadily thrummed the drum, willing the candle to not blow out with the growing wind in the warehouse. But before Sam could speak, another voice shattered the room.

"Freeze, right there!"

Dean's drumming cut off and Sam's jaw hung open as they both turned their eyes to the source of the voice. There, on the periphery of the warehouse, was a pair of cops to their left. In their concentration and the noise, the brothers hadn't even heard their approach.

The cops, for their part, looked angry, maybe scared, and they both had their guns drawn. One was middle aged and wiry, his gray hair thin on his head. The younger one was somewhat pudgy, his chubby fingers looking out of place on the trigger.

"Hands where we can see them!" the younger one ordered, in a voice that held a note of fear.

"Let's not be too hasty now," Dean said, glancing nervously at the spirits.

"We know what you're trying to do," the older one said, shifting nervously as he looked at the spirits.

Dean nearly laughed. "Then you'll know we need to finish."

"You need to step away from that right now," the older ordered again.

"And tell us how to shut down the projections," the younger added.

Neither Sam nor Dean had moved from their spots, both still poised and ready to finish the ritual. They exchanged a terse nod before Sam looked back at the cops, silently willing his brother to follow his lead. "They're not projections," Sam said carefully. "They're spirits. We're trying to finish something that went wrong. Just give us five minutes and then we'll go with you."

Dean glared at his brother, but Sam ignored him, keeping his wide and honest eyes on the cops.

The younger one snorted. "We know all about you," he said. "The FBI is on its way here."

Dean's heart skipped a beat, but Sam remained stoic. "Just let us—"

The older one raised his aim higher, positioning it clearly at Sam. "You need to drop your things now, and come with us."

Sam didn't flinch. Dean tensed, ready to spring to action should the situation warrant it.

The spirits were glowing brightly now, throbbing with light, ebbing closely to the cops in the forms of various animals.

"What the hell?" the younger said, his voice shaking now. "Stu, what is this crap?"

The older flinched, blinking nervously as a bead of sweat trickled down his neck. "Cut the crap out, now," he yelled, his voice breaking.

Sam's patience had run out. Dean saw him hesitate, then knew instinctively what Sam was going to do. Duck and find cover, just long enough to finish before this vision quest went even farther south. There was enough distance between them and the cops, and an outcropping of boxes lurked just behind them. With the spirits growing in intensity and number, they could definitely swing it.

But before they could act, a roar sounded from above, shaking the entire building with a surprisingly force. Dean stumbled, catching the shelves as support. The candle fell over and was snuffed out, and Sam struggled to maintain his footing.

They knew what it was, knew what it had to be, but that didn't stop them from looking, anyway.

From the mix of spirits, lurked a form much more solid.

It looked vaguely human in form, bulky and filled out, but the details were not human. From the meaty fingers, long, thick claws protruded, curving at the ends, glinting like knives in the dim light. Similar claws could be seen on the feet, growing obscenely from the shoeless figure.

It was a man, that much was sure, and though the clothes looked stretched, he was still clad in a t-shirt and jeans. But the garments looked dirty, stained with blood and sediment.

It was the face, though, that was truly disturbing. His nose had thickened and elongated, becoming a snout that accentuated the mouth. Even from a distance, the massive teeth were visible, jutting grotesquely from the snarling mouth. Though it was not altogether covered in hair, the face sported a shaggy beard, enhanced by weeks of poor upkeep.

It was Michael—though the boy Dean and Sam had seen in the pictures was barely recognizable. All hints of compassion and good nature were lost in the slanted eyes that narrowed in on its prey.

As Michael stalked forward, the other spirits drew back, seemingly fearful of the thing that Michael was becoming. Unrest picked up in the warehouse, shuddering the shelves and contents with a growing wind.

Whatever had happened, Michael had lost complete control. The puma had taken over.

"Man, why couldn't it have been a beaver spirit or something that possessed him," Dean moaned.

Sam's eyes were wide and he swallowed. He raised the paper to finish the ritual, but before he could speak, the entity sprang forward with enough force to bring crates and boxes with it as it pounced straight at the brothers.

They had less than a second to react, and both dove out of the way, rolling hard on the ground as the puma thumped between them. Its lips curled in a visceral smile as it eyed its prey. Dean was fumbling for his gun and Sam was muttering the words to the recitation as best he could.

The noise ratcheted up a notch. The other spirits were still at bay, wafting around in the growing haze. Michael's entity pulled like a whirlpool, garnering all the power and force of the room to him, sending the contents in disarray.

Dean got off a shot, then two, and Sam ducked a flying box as it crashed to the wall above his head.

As paper rained down on him, suddenly Sam realized just how easy it was to lose control. Michael just wasn't some amateur who had made a sloppy mistake. No, the forces at play during a vision quest were volatile, dangerous, and overwhelming. Any deviance from the script could foul the whole thing up with devastating results.

Results he was learning first hand just now.

The other spirits were dwarfed by the puma's overbearing presence. It was moving viciously now, leaping around the room.

With a powerful leap, it clipped Dean, who flew back hard into a shelving unit that tipped backwards with the force.

Panicked, Sam dropped his paper, abandoning the ritual. The key was escape now.

The puma was still on the move. It turned its hungry eyes on the cops, both of whom were scrambling in terror toward the door. All their boasts of guns and backup were worthless now, and Sam struggled to move in the growing din.

Sam tried to yell, to scream a warning, but both cops saw it coming. The older one ducked as the puma charged him, catching the claws painfully on his back before going down.

Dean was out—Sam was pretty sure it was just a temporary thing, but he was strewn amid a mess of boxes, all stained red and scattered. The puma had only landed a glancing blow, but it did make Dean vulnerable.

The puma had the younger cop in its sights and was bearing down with a growl that seemed to rumble the building even more.

He was running out of options and time.

Sam didn't think. He just acted. People were in danger—maybe not complete innocents, but their ignorance made them innocent enough to save.

Mustering his strength, he sprinted against the wind, running at full speed toward the puma. He had to get there in time, had to stop it from devouring the terrified cop.

He was nearly on it when he realized that he didn't have a plan of attack, didn't even know what he was doing. But he was screaming and with a burst of adrenaline that blinded his logic, he leaped onto the puma, feeling a burst of energy jolt through him as he came into contact with the part human, part spirit. Nonetheless, he was able to make contact with the corporeal portion of the entity, sending them both rolling hard onto the floor.

The impact was jarring, and Sam struggled to regain his sense of equilibrium. By the time he'd blinked his mind clear, the puma was looming over him, a gleam of hunger and victory in its eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: And it's action! Craziness, I know. Anyway, love to Rachelly and sendintheclowns and geminigrl11 and Tyranusfan for the yaks and the encouragement and more yaks and a beta, respectively :) Thanks to my reviewers. I can only hope there's more readers out there, but I told sendintheclowns I'd post this for her no matter what, so that's what I'm doing.

-o-

**Chapter Seven**

His awareness had abated to a distant hum but it hadn't left him completely. He wasn't sure how long he laid there, but slowly he became aware of the noise and the movement awry around him.

Dean blinked and was surprised to find his eyes working.

There was a haze of papers, swirling and slicing through the air, the sheets covering the floor and obscuring his vision. It was nearly blinding--the white in the dimness--and it took Dean a long minute to orient himself in the surreal snowstorm.

He heard someone yelling. Someone who sounded familiar--someone like Sam.

His concern for his brother ratcheted him to full awareness and he jolted up, a sharp pain spiking through his skull.

Everything blackened for a moment, but he pushed it away, shakily trying to get to his feet.

Then he saw Sam—his brother was moving to the other end of the warehouse, moving toward the cops, which just seemed so like Sam. The kid was always doing selfless things like that—helping the very people who were trying to arrest him. Most of the time Dean respected Sam's bleeding heart--no matter how much he teased him for it--but did it really have to assert itself in the middle of a hunt? When a giant puma-like thing was attacking said cops? Especially since it meant Sam jumping between the giant puma-like thing with massive claws and a bad attitude.

So there was only one thing to do. Dean had to be the bigger hero.

There was only one catch with that plan, though. Dean's head was throbbing, he was still dizzy, and Sam was already on the other side of the room.

Well, there were two catches. The second being that the puma was fast. And Sam was far closer to it than Dean.

Dean was moving, albeit slowly, and even with hazy vision he had a perfect view of what was happening.

The younger cop was cowering, clearly terrified, his partner lying limp a few yards behind him.

Sam was charging in. To do what, Dean wasn't sure, but mostly likely to just get himself killed, which Dean did _not_ want to see.

Sam yelled something—Dean couldn't make it out—and he saw the puma turn, its gleaming eyes fixed on his brother.

Everything happened so fast.

Sam was up, and then Sam was down, in a morbid stop action sequence that turned Dean's stomach. He saw it all happening, so slowly but too fast, and he was too numb to act, too numb for anything except to watch, his mouth opened in a warning that never formulated.

The sound of Sam's yell was guttural and loud, and it broke Dean's trance.

The room was in chaos, cops yelling, things flying. But Dean's focus was singular. He had to get to Sam.

Sam was limp now under the puma's massive paws, and the puma raised its head, blood dripping from its jaw.

He couldn't see how badly Sam was hurt—he could just see the blood staining Sam shirts, which were all partially shredded, revealing his chest beneath. Sam's face was twisted in pain, arms and legs writhing slightly as the paws gripped him, holding him down in a nearly human-like way.

Though the puma was clearly focused on Sam, it did not seem to have much problem keeping the warehouse in disarray. The boxes were flying in earnest now, lids spilling off and papers flying with enough velocity to cut, which Dean knew from the searing slices on his exposed face.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fallen cop tended to by the other, who was yelling frantically into his walkie-talkie. Backup was on its way; this was Dean's only window of opportunity.

He didn't think about strategy, but merely rushed ahead, sweeping by their scattered supplies and yanking the rock salt filled rifle and aiming as he charged.

The beast merely looked at him, opening its jaws in a massive roar as he went down for another bite.

He fired—once, twice. At first, it merely flickered, its claws still firmly embedded into his brother's skin, but the second shot made it roar powerfully before flickering out completely, its corporeal body finally dissipating from on top of his brother. The cacophony in the warehouse did not abate, though, and Dean surged forward, still trying to reach Sam.

Going to his knees, he skittered across the floor, using his arms to deflect the flying debris from his face. He didn't know how long he had until the puma came back, until the backup got here, but he needed to go.

There wasn't time for anything—no time to gather their supplies, to check the puma, to see where Sam was hit—

He just had to go. Now.

Abandoning everything but his revolver, he bent down and reached for Sam. Pulling hard on his brother's arm, he dragged Sam to his feet. His brother's body leaned hard into him, and Dean maneuvered Sam's arm around his neck.

He grunted," Come on, Sam." Tightening his grip around his brother, he held Sam up, anchoring Sam's hip hard against his, willing him to help out.

Sam's head lolled and he muttered something hot and unintelligible against Dean's neck.

"We gotta move," Dean said again, unnecessarily, as he began moving them forward.

There was yelling, getting louder and more intense. Apparently the backup was here. Dean just hoped that their primary concern would be their own. He just needed a small opportunity to get away.

His mind raced as he and Sam moved heavily toward the back exit. The Impala was out front, undoubtedly surrounded and well covered. He'd have to leave it.

A crash and a yelp came from behind. Then a roar. Dean didn't spare a glance back, but let Sam lean against him as he looked discreetly out the door.

A few rusted cars. A dumpster. A thin row of shrubs and then a street beyond.

There was a wail of sirens in the distance. He had to get Sam out of here—now. Soon the cops would be mobilized enough to pursue them. He didn't want to think about what would happen when the FBI did show up. No, he needed to be long gone by them.

He looked at Sam, who was nearly collapsed against him. He could feel the tension in Sam's muscles, the shallow and rapid breaths he took. Gently, he nudged Sam, trying to lift his head.

"We're going to have to run for it," he whispered harshly into his brother's ear. "They're still preoccupied with the puma, so we don't have much time. You think you can stay up?"

Sam didn't reply, didn't even look up, but Dean could feel his brother moving, and that was answer enough.

With a steadying breath, Dean moved out, dragging Sam along with him.

Sam was moving, but barely, and Dean could feel Sam's weight drooping against his. By the time Dean finally reached a street, Sam was all but limp.

The street was quiet and thankfully not well-off. The houses were small and decrepit, the yards mostly browning and some littered with trash. Less people were likely to be looking as he hauled his limp brother from the scene; even fewer would be tempted to do anything about it.

Panting, Dean hoisted Sam against him, trying to control his brother's flailing limbs. He faltered and Sam nearly fell to the ground.

This wasn't going to work. Dean's mind reeled. None of this was going to work. He had no escape plan, no backup plan, no car, and a little brother who was probably bleeding to death. Not to mention the cops back at the warehouse and the promise of feds.

They were screwed.

But there was no time for that now. If he wanted to keep Sam--and himself--out of prison, he needed to move. Now.

He needed to get them off foot. Sam was in no condition to run and Dean certainly couldn't carry him much farther. Without the Impala, they were limited, but growing up a Winchester had taught him about more than destroying ghosts.

He eyed the first car he saw on the street, thankful it was a nondescript car and definitely not new. No security alarms and whoever missed it wouldn't have much chance of finding it.

Carefully, Dean dragged Sam to the car, laying him next to in the grass. He spared a moment to take his brother in—the pale, sweaty features, eyes blinking dazedly, chest heaving with exertion.

And blood.

Stark redness all over his torso, in the folds of his slashed shirt.

He swore. "Can't do anything the easy way, can you, Sam?" he murmured, letting his hand linger on Sam's uninjured shoulder.

Moving away from Sam was hard—it physically _hurt_ and his stomach turned violently—but it had to be done. He made short work of the locks before opening a back door and dashing back around the car to where Sam lay.

"Okay, Sammy," he murmured, gently grasping Sam's good arm and pulling him upright. He eased a hand behind his brother's back and hefted him softly. "We need to go for a little ride."

A soft grunt emitted from his brother's lips, and Dean took that to be a good sign.

Carefully, he maneuvered Sam to the car. "I know it's not our usual digs, little brother," he babbled. "But beggars can't be choosers. Besides, no sense having you bleed all over _our_ seats."

The joke was in poor taste, and Dean knew it, but Sam was too out of it to care, and Dean knew that the inappropriateness would be more reassuring than anything else were his brother still coherent. Getting Sam into the car was an awkward process—too many limbs, too much blood, and not enough space. Dean climbed into the car before his brother, pulling him in, mindful of Sam's injured torso.

Once Sam was to the far end of the seat, Dean opened the door and slid out. "You okay, Sammy?" he asked, kneeling at the door to peer into his brother's face.

Sam's eyes were open, barely, slight slits that reveals wedges of dilated pupils.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked and his eyes widened momentarily. "Dean?" he breathed.

Dean cracked a grin, fumbling around the foreign car for something to take care of the bleeding. He came up with a t-shirt--it looked dirty and ragged and probably not nearly sanitary enough, but it would have to do. He ripped it quickly. "I just need to put some pressure on these," he explained.

Sam was staring at him, staring through him, wincing slightly as Dean looped one of the strips under Sam's back, tying it tight over the rest of the shirt, which he had wadded up over the worst of the slashes.

It was crude work, poorly done, but it was better than nothing. He glanced nervously over his shoulder before looking back at his brother. "We've got to get a move on," he said. "You up for a car ride?"

The lucidity in Sam's eyes faded and his eyelids sank. Dean gave Sam's hair a tousle before he carefully shut the door.

Running to the other side, he lifted Sam's legs, molding them to fit into the car. He had to bend his brother's legs, setting them awkwardly against the door, but Sam was simply too big and Dean was out of time.

Closing that door too, Dean made his way hurriedly into the driver's seat, pausing only to catch his breath. Adjusting the mirror, he made sure he could see Sam in the backseat.

With a deep breath, Dean gathered his wits. A lot had just gone on, more than he could even process, but he couldn't let that get to him now. Not yet. Not until Sam was safe.

Sam was his priority. Now and always.

Solidified, Dean bent over and yanked the console free, exposing the wires. A few careful clicks later, the engine roared to life.

Sparing his brother one more glance, he swallowed. "Let's get out of here," he said.

No reply came from the backseat. Just Sam's labored breathing.

Dean put the car into gear and resisted the urge to peel out from the curb.

-o-

Dean waited until they were well outside of town before he pushed the pedal to the floor and sped. He hadn't wanted to arouse suspicions, but the road was lonely and vacant, and he needed to put as much distance between them and the FBI as possible. There was no telling how far reaching their net had gone.

Under normal circumstances (the thought of _normal_ almost made Dean want to laugh) he probably would have driven for a day straight, two days, maybe three, until his facial hair grew in enough that with a hat and glasses he was nearly unrecognizable.

But these weren't normal circumstances. Because Sam couldn't afford to ride around for two days, or even one.

Nervously, he glanced at his brother.

Sam was splayed against the seat, head lolled back and face turned toward him. His lips were parted and at a glance, Sam looked almost normal, like he usually did when sleeping in the seat.

But Sam's lips were pale and his chest was visibly rising fast and shallow. Sweat made his bangs cling to his forehead. And he didn't even twitch. That didn't even begin to cover the blood that stained Sam's shirt, soaking through both layers so that the fabric stuck tight to his torso.

It wasn't ideal, but he had to hole up. He had to clean Sam's wounds, stitch them, bind them. Of course that meant a higher risk of getting caught, but if he didn't...

If he didn't, there was a really high risk that Sam would die.

That wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

He sighed, reaching his arm back and snaking Sam's wrist. Pressing two fingers to Sam's pulse point, he felt for the beat, reassured by its presence, even if it wasn't steady or strong.

"Just hang on, Sammy," he murmured. "I'll get us out of this."

-o-

He checked them in to the Grand View Inn, which was nothing special, and a bit off the highway, hopefully far enough to not be the first place someone would look. Checking in was a hurried affair, though Dean did take enough time to distract the motel owner out of the building while he swiped the gleaming First Aid Kit from the wall behind the counter--he'd need something to deal with Sam's injuries, and he had a feeling that he wouldn't find much more than pocket change in their stolen means of transportation.

He parked behind the motel, in a dingy lot. He would have ditched the car altogether, but he couldn't leave Sam alone, not for that long, not like he was.

Getting Sam inside would be a chore. He'd managed it before, but his adrenaline had been pumping then. Now, he just fell raw and tired, jittery with nerves. When he leaned over and tried to rouse Sam, pulling the kid into a seated position, his brother's eyelids fluttered and something unintelligible came from his mouth.

"Come on, Sammy," he encouraged, picking up his brother's right leg and swinging it outside the car.

Sam groaned.

"Can you work with me?" Dean asked, moving his brother's other leg outside the door. Once both feet were aligned, he maneuvered himself alongside his brother, wrapping Sam's arm around his shoulders.

Sam's head lolled against him. "Dean?"

"Yeah, kiddo," Dean said. "You with me?"

Sam's head tipped forward, his chin falling against his chest.

"Take that as a no," Dean quipped humorously. "Up we go."

With a grunt, he pulled Sam to his feet, snaking his arm around his brother's waist to stabilize him. Sam listed heavily, clearly not supporting his own weight and Dean felt them nearly tumbling to the ground.

Carrying Sam was a project on a good day—his brother was bigger than he was and the lean muscles that hid underneath Sam's layers of clothing were a force to be reckoned with.

Big brother concern was also a force to be reckoned with. It was the kind of concern that led people to lift cars by themselves, to overcome impossible odds to save a loved one.

Getting Sam into the motel room, in comparison, was no contest, and Dean, for his part, barely remembered the struggle.

Inside the room, it was hot and musty. He lowered Sam to the first bed before flipping on the air conditioning while running to the car to get the first aid supplies he'd taken. Home surgery was not a foreign concept to the Winchesters, and Dean knew he would have to work fast and carefully. It would be a long and bloody night no matter how he looked at it.

He raided the bathroom for towels, wetting a few in preparation.

Supplies gathered, he sucked in a steadying breath, and took a good look at his brother.

Sam was exactly where he'd left him, sprawled out on top of the cheap motel bedspread. His head was turned slightly to the side, and Dean could see that he was panting for breath. The blood was everywhere and had clearly soaked through the bandage he'd hastily applied. Therein was the problem.

Swallowing back his trepidation, Dean opened the kit, pleased to find it well stocked. Though it was not up to his usual standards, it did have a variety of painkillers and bandages, even a few coveted pressure bandages. While the motel lacked much in the way of cleanliness, it certainly seemed to be ready for temporary triage in case of a medical emergency.

First things first, he needed to see just how bad this really was. The blood spoke volumes of the severity, but Dean needed to know just how severe it was. As in, did Sam already have one foot in the grave or would time and rest and fluids do the trick?

Carefully, he unbuttoned his brother's shirt, pulling it away. He took scissors to Sam's t-shirt—the thing was ruined anyway. The thought of lifting Sam more than he needed to was not appealing—he didn't want to disturb his brother more than he had to—any additional jostling would only encourage more bleeding anyway.

Peeling the shirt to the sides, he got his first good look at Sam's injuries.

He blanched.

It was worse than he had anticipated, even worse than he'd dared to fear. Long slices crisscrossed Sam's abdomen and chest. Some were mostly superficial, but one set, nicking the upper abdomen and cutting long across his chest, was deep.

As bloody as those were, they were nothing in comparison to the shredded state of Sam's shoulder. A chunk of flesh was simply missing, the meat around it ground up and hanging grotesquely.

For the first time, he was glad Sam was unconscious, because that had to hurt like hell.

Swallowing hard, he forced his nausea away. He didn't have time for such luxuries. Sam needed help—and he needed it now.

His hands were shaking as he took a wet towel and wiped down the wounds, mopping up the blood. Blood welled in the wake, but it wasn't as much now, and that much made Dean feel better. Some clotting had occurred.

Next he had to clean them—make sure they didn't get infected. He was liberal with the antiseptic, and even threw in a dose of holy water for good measure—he'd rather be safe than sorry, and truthfully, he didn't know enough about the merging of spirits and man to know if the wounds they inflicted could have supernatural consequences.

Sam tensed, muscles bunching, but he didn't move, a low moan grumbling from his throat.

"Easy, Sam," he soothed, keeping his hands gentle and sure. Sam was in enough pain; Dean did not relish inflicting more.

Only three slashes on his chest would need stitches he decided, and there wasn't enough of the outer layer of skin on Sam's shoulder to stitch—he'd just have to put a pressure bandage on and hope for the best. Maybe later, once things settled, he could get Sam to a clinic, something more low-key to check it out, but for now—for now he'd just do what he had to do.

Before he could patch the shoulder, he'd have to stitch up the chest wounds. He'd sewn stitches before, more times than he'd like to remember, and he almost wished that Sam would respond more as the needle dipped in and out of the tanned skin of Sam's chest. But Sam was out, deeply lost in the pain and held under by the blood loss. He made a note to check for shock—Sam's blood pressure would be low, no doubt, and he didn't have the means to do much more than sit and monitor it.

That took care of the slashes, which left the shoulder. Washing it carefully, he did a deeper inspection, worriedly examining the torn flesh. It was deep enough to hit muscle, and that would prove problematic for recovery, especially if Dean didn't get Sam to a facility soon.

Dean suppressed an urge to panic. Sam needed a hospital. But Sam also needed to stay out of jail.

Numbly, he put on the pressure bandage, then proceeded to wrap all of Sam's chest in a hope to completely stop the bleeding. He'd have to check the injuries every few hours, change the bandages and clean the wounds, and just hope that the incident blew over soon enough to get the injuries dealt with properly.

When Dean had finally finished with Sam's wounds, his brother was still asleep, pale and unmoving on the bed. Dean sighed heavily, rubbing his hand through his hair, oblivious to the dried blood which cakes his fingers. Blood still seeped and the bandages were crude, but for now, it was enough. It would have to be enough. He pulled the blankets over Sam before flopping back, exhausted, onto his own bed.

Weariness crept through his body, but his mind would not give in to sleep. There was too much at risk. And in the back of his mind he could always hear the distant wail of sirens encroaching on his consciousness.

No, he had to stay awake, stay alert, just in case.

Resigned, he turned on the TV to find the local news playing. He was greeted with his own mugshot hovering next to the blonde anchorwoman who read seriously off her cue cards. He cursed aloud as he turned up the volume.

"...authorities are looking for this man, who is wanted in connection to a robbery in Minnesota last month and a string of murders in Missouri last year. The man and an accomplice were said to have had an altercation with local police today, which led to the death of one officer. Another is critically wounded and still in the hospital at this time. If you have any information about this man..."

This certainly wasn't the kind of press he wanted to get. The last thing he needed was everyone and their cousin looking for him, trying to make a buck and take a shot at fifteen minutes of fame at his expense—at Sam's expense.

But, he had to admit, it was nice that at least they had a picture that looked like him this time. Though he would have liked to look less sweaty—shine did nothing for his pores.

There was a gasp from the other bed, and Dean turned his head in time to see his brother take a rattling breath. The younger brother's chest heaved as he settled back, his stillness resuming. The hint of fever was beginning to creep into Sam's cheeks, and Dean felt his heart rate quicken.

Shiny pores or not, the picture was good enough to get him ID'd. Good enough to get him caught. Good enough to condemn both himself and Sam to a lifetime in prison.

He couldn't let that happen.

He just didn't know how to stop it.

-o-

The room reeked of body odor, faintly tinged with the scent of blood and sweat. The four small walls seemed to close in on them; Dean hadn't left in over a day, and Sam certainly hadn't either. They couldn't risk it. The news had been flashing both their pictures, and Dean could only hope that his low-slung cap had been enough to cover his face from the kid at the desk when they'd checked in yesterday. He'd paid up for a week, told them to forget maid service, but he was nervous just the same. Because Sam was getting worse, and Dean was running out of options to get them out of this.

He took to pacing on and off, long strides up and down the room's scant interior. He tried sitting, but his legs felt restless, moving him to stand once again. He lingered by Sam's side, checking the bandages and checking Sam's temperature, knowing that both were becoming a problem.

The red flush of fever laced Sam's cheeks and sweat beaded on his brow. It wasn't dangerously high—yet—but Dean knew that he'd be out of Tylenol soon, and that without proper treatment the wounds would only get worse.

His brother had stopped fully rousing to his touch, and that unnerved Dean more than anything else. He was left alone to the silence of the room and the muted whimpers that came from Sam.

He started pacing again.

It was so suffocating that Dean could hardly breathe. On the bed, Sam shifted marginally, and Dean paused, watching his brother.

But Sam merely moaned and twitched before falling eerily silent yet again.

Sighing, Dean resumed his course. It'd been a few hours since he'd checked the bandage, but he knew what he'd find. Bloody bandages were discarded about the room, and though the wound had clotted somewhat, it still seeped. He'd have to change it soon.

But Sam was running out of blood.

And Dean was running out of options.

His phone taunted him from the dresser.

It was a last resort. A desperate chance. It would cost him everything—his freedom, maybe his life—

But it would save Sam. It was Sam's only hope.

Dean clenched his teeth and let his head drop down. Because he knew. He couldn't let Sam die. He'd give up everything, if only Sam could live.

It was his only hope, too.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Well, I'm not sure Dean made the choice you might have wanted him, too, but he's a little freaked and backed into a corner at the momnet, so don't reprimand him too much :) Continued thanks to those who are reading.

-o-

**Chapter Eight**

Dean was attached to many material things. His car, some of his weapons, things like that. Cell phones, on the other hand, didn't count for much—he went through a fair share, losing some, ditching others, but they were just for convenience, safety.

He held his now, though, like it was everything in the entire world.

All it would take would be to dial three numbers. He didn't know how to reach the FBI, but he was pretty sure it didn't matter. 9-1-1 would get him there, one way or another.

His cell phone would end his life. It would save Sam's.

He wanted to hurl it against a wall, shatter it, break it, destroy it, because it wasn't fair. It shouldn't have come to this. It shouldn't be like this.

But it _had _come to this. And it was like this.

Sam needed him. He wasn't a man of compromise, but he'd do anything for Sam.

He dialed.

The operator sounded surprised when he talked to her, but within minutes he was transferred, and he recognized Henricksen's voice. He'd only heard it twice, but that had been enough.

"Dean Winchester," he said, smooth and easy, his voice controlled and confident. "All this time I've been on your trail, and here you are, calling _me_."

Dean hadn't called to make small talk. He didn't call to hear the man gloat or revel in his own victories. "I want to make a deal."

There was a pause, then a half-amused voice. "A deal? What makes you think I can't just trace this call right now and have a squad dispatched as we speak?"

"You know I'll run," Dean said simply. "And I told you, I want to make a deal."

"What do you think you have to barter with?"

"Me," Dean said.

"You?" There was a hint of incredulity in the agent's voice.

"You want me, right?"

"I guess," came the noncommittal reply.

"Well, you can have me, no resisting, no running, no tricks."

Henricksen made a small sound in the back of his throat. "For what?" he asked, his voice tempered.

"Sam," Dean replied, his voice unwavering. "Sam goes free, not a mark on his record."

There was a moment of consideration. "I don't need to take this deal, Dean," he said finally. "I know Sam's hurt. Not just a little hurt, but really hurt. They tell me he's dying. He's half-dead as it is, given how much blood he left behind. You _really _want to trade your life for his?"

Dean swallowed back his panic and kept himself focused. Henricksen_ would_ take this deal; it was too good of an offer to refuse. "What kind of life will he have locked up in some federal prison?"

This time Henricksen did laugh. "You know what, Dean," he said. "Okay. I've read Sam's file. I think your baby brother's had it rough his whole life—the black sheep of the Winchester family. He could have been clean, if not for you. I'll bet you even set that fire in his apartment that night—killed his girlfriend, but _managed_ to save Sam. Made sure he had no one else to turn to but you."

Anger flared in Dean's chest and he wanted to hang up, to disconnect and run. But his eyes shifted to Sam, barely alive on the bed. He could not afford to satisfy his pride. Not now. Not with this much at stake. "Do we have a deal?" he demanded, his voice taut.

Henricksen snorted, and for a brief second Dean thought he was going to reject it.

But then the snide, smooth voice replied. "Deal."

-o-

The wait seemed interminable.

Henricksen had ordered Dean to stay put, that he'd send an ambulance and a police escort and if the deal was to stay good, he and Sam better be right where they said they were.

Everything inside of Dean screamed to leave, but he couldn't. He was anchored here, at Sam's side. He'd always known he'd give up everything for his brother, but with his freedom hanging in the balance, he was suddenly aware just how much of a sacrifice he was making.

He perched himself on the edge of Sam's bed, studying his little brother, almost memorizing his features. He'd known Sam better than anyone else in the last 23 years, but it surprised him how rarely he often stopped to look at his brother.

Sam has always seemed young to him, and with his boyish features lax in unconsciousness, now was no different. The worry lines were gone. Sam exuded a certain innocence. It made people trust him, respect him, even people who hardly knew him, people who Sam was lying to. Sam was genuine in all the ways that mattered, and that gave him a childlike faith that define him.

Sure, Sam was always the one to ask _why_. But, unlike Dean, Sam believed in a greater good, something beyond the visible, the proven; he just sometimes struggled to figure out how he fit into it, how his family fit into it. While Dean believed in things he could strictly see, Sam was preoccupied with what he couldn't, with what he didn't have, which inevitably led to friction.

Sam had spent his life trying to make sense of the way he lived. He could never reconcile the familiar nature of the hunt, the betterment of the world, with the pain and insecurity and distance he felt because of it. And after Jessica, there was always something missing in Sam, no matter how much his brother tried to hide it. He could remember all too clearly being in the carnival and listening to Sam tell him he didn't want normal, that he was having second thoughts—that Sam was slowly leaving all his hopes and dreams behind.

It was what Dean had always wanted to hear his brother say.

But as he sat there by Sam's bedside, he only wished he could take it back, take it all back. He wanted his brother to be happy, to be free, to be everything he wanted. He wanted to see Sam have that, be there with him. It wasn't until he'd signed his life away that he realized that maybe he wanted it, too. Maybe he could have gone to school when this was over, settled down, had a life. He didn't want normal, but he couldn't deny that laying down roots suddenly had some appeal. Right when he couldn't have it.

But Sam could. Sam could live a long, happy life. Sam could be fine and settle down, become a lawyer, meet some nice girl. That could still happen.

Dean had to cling to that.

He sighed, clenching his jaw as he finally reached forward and smoothed his hand through his brother's hair. "I'm sorry, Sammy," he murmured. "I hope you understand."

Sam wouldn't, he was sure of that. At least not right away. Sam's anger would be great. His heart would be broken.

But he'd be free.

They'd just have to figure out the rest from there. Besides, Dean knew Sam would never stay mad at him. Not now, not ever. No doubt, Sam would work tirelessly to free him, either legally or illegally, Dean was pretty sure he'd attempt both.

That wasn't what he wanted for Sam, but as long as Sam had a life to waste, Dean could probably deal with it.

-o-

The FBI arrived first, in an unmarked car with a siren clapped to the top of it. Henricksen climbed out, donning a suit and a tie, and his partner threw it in park while Henricksen stalked toward the room.

The ambulance was only thirty seconds behind, which was the only reason Dean moved to open the door when Henricksen pounded on it.

Dean only hesitated for a second, taking a deep breath in order to steady himself. Glancing backward at Sam, he assured himself this was the right choice, and opened the door.

A smirk spread across Henricksen's face. "Dean Winchester," he said, clearly amused, as he shook his head. "So we meet again."

Dean didn't back down, didn't avert his eyes. He kept himself focused and steady. "Let the paramedics in," he said, nodding behind Henricksen, where a pair of medics stood waiting with their gear.

Henricksen shrugged. "Okay," he said with a shrug, stepping out of the way. "Sam's not my concern."

Dean stepped back from the entryway. The two medics exchanged uncertain glances before moving in past him. Dean hesitated, wanting to go check on Sam, but not knowing what that message would tell Henricksen.

"Go ahead," Henricksen said, reading his expression with a conciliatory nod. "You might as well spend what time with him you can. My partner is covering the back window. I'll be right here. You're not going anywhere this time. I'll make sure of that."

It almost hurt to accept the leniency, but he swallowed his pride and turned without a word, following the medics to the bed.

They had pulled the covers from Sam and one was peeling away the bandage in exploration. The other was busying herself setting up an IV.

"How long has he been like this?" the man pulling back Sam's bandages asked.

"Nearly two days," Dean reported, his tone somber.

One of them almost winced before managing a sympathetic smile. He was tearing open a new gauze patch to place on Sam's side. He murmured something to his partner who nodded, opening another bag of equipment.

"How is he?" Dean asked, edging forward hesitantly, feeling Henricksen's presence behind him.

"He's stable enough for transport," one said, reaching for the backboard. "We need to get him to the hospital, though—soon."

Dean swallowed hard, trying to quell the fear growing in his stomach. If he'd waited too long—then it'd all be for nothing. It couldn't be for nothing. Sam had to be okay.

The medics moved quickly and quietly, maneuvering Sam onto the backboard and lifting him off the ground. Sam was still throughout it all, limp and deathly pale. The medics started toward the door, and Dean moved to followed, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

He looked up, almost surprised, to see the agent leveling him with a sardonic glare. "It's time for us to head off," he said.

"I want to go with him," Dean said, straightening himself with a confidence he didn't feel.

Henricksen shook his head, a little bemused. "That wasn't part of the deal, Winchester."

Dean didn't flinch, didn't register the comment. "Doesn't matter. I need to know he's okay."

"Again, I'm afraid that just wasn't a part of our negotiations," Henricksen said, his voice laden with mock sympathy.

"You want me to answer any questions? Then you let me go with Sam. You can cuff me, watch me, anything—but until I see that he's okay with my own two eyes, you're not getting anything out of me."

Henricksen's expression was distant, considering. "I'm going to agree to this," he said finally. Then he smiled. "After all, where you're going, it's not like you'll be seeing him or anyone else for that matter any time soon."

The threat was cruel, but Dean ignored it. He willed himself to be silent, taking what little he could get. He'd deal with Henricksen and his flippancy and just how screwed he probably was later. Right now all he needed was Sam.

-o-

He had always thought that waiting rooms were lonely places and he'd always hated being in them alone.

But he'd take the loneliness over a room full of police any day.

Henricksen stuck to him like glue, seated casually in the seat next to him. There was a uniformed cop standing at post on a wall nearby, looking bored and far too stiff—he could have been a mannequin for all Dean knew, except for the occasional shifting from one leg to the other.

It was an awkward wait, with his entourage and all, not to mention the handcuffs which made getting comfortable nearly impossible. They'd at least had the decency to cuff him in front, though it did mean that he was never outside of two feet from some form of law enforcement.

The hours passed in silence. The uniform at the door changed shifts, nodding absently to one another, but Henricksen didn't move. The man didn't even flip through a magazine, didn't attempt conversation.

They just sat, side by side, in total silence.

It was the hardest wait of Dean's life.

Waiting to know if Sam would be okay was never easy, not by a long shot, but this time, it was so much worse.

He wasn't just waiting for word on Sam.

Dean was waiting for his own freedom to end. As soon as Sam was safe and okay, he'd be taken away and would probably never see the light of day again.

He'd never hunt again, never save anyone's life. He'd never get to clean his guns or drive his car or flirt with the waitresses at little local diners. He'd never get to charm a woman, order a slice of pie, check into a motel under some ridiculous alias.

He'd probably get to see Sam again. The kid would visit him, no doubt, but he'd never see Sam be happy again. Sam would try, for his sake, but he knew his younger brother would only blame himself. It would be all Dean could do to keep the kid from doing something stupid; keeping him happy would never happen.

They'd never find the demon together. They'd never avenge their parents' death. Sam would have to face the demon _alone_. He'd never get to make Sam go back to school, he'd never stand up as his best man. There would be no Uncle Dean to Sam's kids, there'd be no kids of his own. He was a man without a future, and it was hard to take.

Hard, but not impossible. Not impossible if Sam would be alive and _free_.

When the doctor finally arrived Dean had no idea what time it was. He wasn't even sure if he was awake or not, but as soon as the doctor said Sam's name, Dean was up and standing.

"How is he?" he asked without preamble, without apology.

"Well, he lost a lot of blood, son, and that's not something you mess with," the doctor said, his bushy eyebrows raised and furrowed. "We've transfused him, which is helping with his vital signs, but there are still risks associated with blood transfusions."

Dean's mind couldn't comprehend it, didn't want to think beyond a simple okay or not okay.

The doctor smiled at Dean's confused look. "Barring any complications, he will be fine. We've got him in the ICU to monitor him, but I figure we'll be transferring him out within the day. He'll have an impressive scar, but should pull through just fine."

Relief washed over Dean and he felt tears prick his eyes. It was all he had wanted to know. All he had needed. This was the reason he had sacrificed everything. So Sam would be okay. So Sam could live a long and happy life.

Henricksen moved closer to him from behind, and Dean could feel his presence bearing down.

"Thank you, doctor," Dean murmured.

The doctor looked at him, then at Henricksen, nodded and then left.

Dean watched him go, his stomach turning. He had no regret, no doubt, just a shred of sadness that he wouldn't be there when Sam woke up.

But Sam would understand. Sam would get it. Sam was strong, resilient; he always landed on his feet. Dean was sure of that.

It didn't mean it was easy to go. It didn't mean that he didn't want to run hard and fast out of there, away from the FBI, away from the deal he'd just made.

That was his instinct, his fight or flight response, but it could never be. Not at the risk of Sam's safety and freedom.

Taking an uneasy breath, he turned, meeting the dark eyes of Agent Victor Henricksen. The agent had a bemused look on his face, and Dean willed himself to stay true. For Sam. "Okay," he said. "Now we can go."

Dean tried to ignore the look of glee on Henricksen face as he moved in, a steady hand gripping him hard, and moving him toward the door, away from freedom, away from Sam.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Apologies for the tardiness of this chapter. The term was ending at school and I was swamped with grades among other things and I simply did not have the time :) Hopefully I'll be a little more consistent these days. Thanks to everyone for their enthusiastic response to the last chapter--and just keep in mind this is all decidedly AU now and it was written before Jus in Bello ever aired. All other notes of importance in chapter one :)

-o-

**Chapter Nine**

It wasn't the first interrogation room Dean had ever been in, but Dean couldn't help but wonder if it would be his last.

This one was no more memorable than the others. It was plain and dreary, blank walls and sparse furniture and the telltale mirror that the other side could see through.

He really would have thought the FBI could have dredged up something better than this. Though he had to give them credit, at least this time they were much faster on the draw. In Arkansas it'd been local authorities who'd taken them in (only because they _let_ them), but this time it was the FBI's show all the way. While the fact that Henricksen had tracked them was impressive, not much else was.

This chair was padded at least, and his right hand was cuffed to the table. He'd been left there and told to wait, like he had some choice in the matter.

He started humming Metallica, mostly to pass the time, and also to keep himself from thinking too much about Sam waking up, alone in the hospital. Because that really was his biggest regret. Not that he was anxious to do time, but he could deal with his own situation, as long as he knew Sam was safe, that Sam would be okay—not just physically, but emotionally, too. The kid had lost a lot over the last few years, and Dean wasn't sure what Sam's response would be to this most recent change of events.

Part of him wondered if Sam would try to break him out. His little brother was enough of a geek that Dean was pretty sure he could come up with something, and when push came to shove, Sam had been known to fracture a law or two in the name of family.

Dean sighed. But this was the FBI. This was the big time. Dean didn't know just how much of a case they had against him, but he knew enough--and it wasn't good. If Sam did try, there was a good chance he'd get caught too, and then all of Dean's sacrifice would be for nothing. They'd gotten away once, but Dean didn't think they'd be able to swing that again.

As much as he hated to think of Sam alone out there, he hated to think of Sam alone in prison even more.

It was kind of a lose-lose situation.

Not that that didn't seem like the story of their lives.

His muses were interrupted by the sound of the door opening.

Henricksen swaggered in, a smug grin on his face as he sauntered up to the table.

Normally Dean would have been cocky, ready to banter with him. But right then, he just wanted out. Because there as no point to the arguing, to the posturing. He could lie, he could tell the truth, and it wouldn't change anything.

He'd been screwed before, but never like this.

-o-

Sam had spent a lifetime moving around. He'd never had a home, not except for a two year stint with Jess in Palo Alto. But, more often than not, _home_ was nothing more than a string of motel rooms, dingy apartments, and the Impala's backseat.

Therefore, Sam was used to not knowing where he was. It wasn't even disconcerting to him; instead it was an expected weightlessness as he waited for awareness to settle on him. His location was nothing more than background; it was his state of mind that he took security in. That, and the people around him.

He was always able to tell when he was alone, not just literally, but emotionally, when his dad or his brother or Jess weren't around. He could feel their absence like an emptiness in his heart. It came from years of familiarity and was toned by the hunts of his preteen years when he was told to stay back, alone, locked in the car, drifting off in uneasy rests that made him feel more alone than he'd ever known.

It was the feeling he had now.

His eyelids felt heavier than usual, almost seeming to stick shut with the weight of sleep. And his body—it felt hindered, more deeply stuck in the land of dreams.

But there had been no dreams. It was like waking from a void.

And he was alone.

The air was sterile and clean, and there were unfamiliar noises. Voices, movement, machines.

A hospital.

That made Sam struggle harder to open his eyes. Because if he was in a hospital, then where was Dean?

Then he remembered the warehouse, the ritual, Michael, the puma. He winced, shifting on the bed. The puma's claws, the puma's teeth.

Finally cracking his eyes, light streamed in, bringing with it a sense of feeling in his body, which was not a welcomed sensation. It wasn't unbearable, though he was pretty sure it would be if not for the drugs that were surely working through his system.

Blinking, he glanced around, taking in the IVs and the monitors. For all intents and purposes, he was alive, whatever that was worth.

But there was something off in his room. There was a curtain drawn, presumably separating him from another patient, which was never his favorite thing in the world. Still, there was something more, something more important, something missing.

His brother wasn't there.

Sam's breathing hitched at that realization. His vision dimmed a little on the edges and he endeavored to sit up, to move, not that he exactly knew what he'd do if he achieved such mobility.

How long had he been here? Maybe Dean was getting coffee, or going to the bathroom? Those were perfectly reasonable things for his brother to do. If that was the case, Dean would be here soon, within minutes, ready to crack a joke or something.

Sam tried to relax, but found his breath catching expectantly in his throat. He strained to hear beyond the steady noises of the monitors by his head, to distinguish between the muffled voices and footsteps in the hallways, to hear Dean's laugh, or the cadence of Dean's boots on the linoleum.

Nothing.

He didn't know how much time had passed—had no way to measure it—but he found himself growing tense and worried. If Dean wasn't with him, then that meant Dean could be in another room, in surgery, someplace else in this hospital.

He just knew that Dean should be there--Dean _would_ be there. Den was so _good _about being there. Sam had been in the hospital more than his share in his lifetime, and Dean nearly always managed to find a way into Sam's room, no matter what rules or nurses tried to tell him.

Thethought renewed his efforts to move.

He didn't get very far. His body felt weak, fuzzy; movement was limited. He was able to roll his right shoulder up off the bed, but could get no farther. His left arm nearly refused to move altogether and Sam could feel his heart rate picking up with a twinge of panic.

A monitor bleeped, but Sam could hardly hear it. He just wanted out. He wanted to know what was going on. He wanted Dean.

The monitor was still bleating in annoyance and soon Sam found himself not alone. Warm, steady hands were on him, restraining, gentle. "Dean?" he asked, his voice hopeful, a bit desperate.

Looking up, he was met with the none-too-concerned gaze of a nurse. "Mr. Winchester," she said. "Can you relax for me? You're going to hurt yourself more."

It was meant to be placating, and her eyes were brown and sincere, but it did nothing to assuage the growing sense that something was very, very wrong.

He tried to move away from her, to break her contact with him. He opened his mouth to speak, but coughed instead, surprised to find it dry.

"Careful," she soothed. "You've been out of it for awhile."

Sam just shook his head, trying to force back the tears that were threatening his eyes. "Dean," he said again. "Where's Dean?"

She just looked confused. "I'm sorry," she said. "I just got on this shift—I don't—"

It was like something was tightening Sam's chest, Sam's brain, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, and Dean needed to be here.

"Relax," she was saying. "I've paged the doctor. But you need to calm down."

But Sam didn't want to calm down. He was in a hospital he didn't remember coming to, surrounded by people he didn't know. He could barely move--hell, he could barely _think_ straight--and she was telling him to calm down.

She was gripping his good arm with a gentle tenacity, and he blinked a few times until she came into focus.

"Work on breathing evenly," she said, her voice trained and soothing. "You're going to hyperventilate. Just focus on in and out."

His mind struggled to rebel, but he found himself transfixed and helpless. In and out. He could manage that much.

Lulled by it, Sam felt his body relaxing, sinking back into the bed. The pain distanced itself from him, and sleep hovered near.

A noise came from the doorway, and he jerked to awareness again, the same questions flooding to mind. He strained upward, hoping to see his brother standing in the doorway.

It was a doctor. Long white coat, nondescript glasses, and a benevolent face.

He was striding to the bed before Sam had the breath to ask him where the hell his brother was. His fight must have been visible because the doctor took the nurse's place by his side, and looked at his critically.

"Easy," the doctor said, placing a firm hand on Sam. "You're going to go and screw up your stitches. And you may not be feeling the pain now, but you will soon if you don't calm down."

Sam eased his fighting, letting himself go limp on the bed again, more out of exhaustion than submission. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother? I don't know," the doctor said with a plaintive shrug.

"He's not here?" Sam couldn't keep the desperation in his voice. Dean was always here, always, and Sam hurt, he ached, and his brother wasn't _here_.

The doctor shook his head. "No," he said. "But in case you were wondering, you are still in the ICU. Your surgery ended just over five hours ago. You've been sedated to help keep you still and protect your stitches."

Sam's brow furrowed. There was too much information and yet not enough. He couldn't handle the intake and he needed to know where Dean was.

"Let's see if you've managed to do any damage," the doctor suggested simply, seeming to sense Sam's confusion.

Sam swallowed hard, too shaky to stop the doctor as he pulled back Sam's blanket. The doctor then made short work of Sam's gown, deftly pulling it up and Sam felt himself blushing. He quickly noted, however, that the doctor's eyes were probing much higher, pulling at layers of gauze he'd barely noticed before.

The tape stuck and Sam winced a little, leaning his head up to get a better look.

He immediately regretted it.

Though it was still hard for his eyes to focus, the bandage across his chest revealed a nasty slice, still red and oozing with puss through rows of neat stitches. The doctor scowled a little, dabbing at it with his gloved hands before discarding the old bandage and fixing it with another.

The man looked up at Sam, a hint of humor in his face. "And that's not even the bad one, son."

He maneuvered Sam's gown farther out of the way and went to Sam's shoulder. The contact made Sam grimace, a deep pain suddenly aching through his body with a paralyzing intensity.

The doctor was careful, even gentler with this bandage, but the second it was removed, Sam felt his stomach turn and he nearly threw up.

The doctor's hands were restraining now. "Careful," he said. "You need to breath through it."

Breathing was difficult and more than a little overrated in Sam's opinion. He'd settle for thinking coherently, for knowing what the hell was going on, for seeing his brother.

The examination was continuing though, with or without Sam's awareness. The touch rekindled the pain and Sam whimpered despite himself.

His shoulder was a mess; he'd never seen so grotesque an injury up close. At least not on a living person.

"We had to do a skin graft," the doctor explained gently, examining the wound. "We've been keeping you full of antibiotics to help fight off the infection you had when you got in here. Luckily your temperature has been holding at a low fever, so I think we've managed to preempt the worst of it."

Sam was too nauseated to reply, and he was more than a little relieved when the doctor covered the wound up with a fresh bandage and pulled Sam gown back into place.

"Now that you're awake, we'll up your pain medication," the doctor continued.

Shaking his head, Sam interjected, "No."

Taken aback, the doctor studied him. "No? I don't think you understand—"

"I need to be awake," Sam insisted. "I need to see my brother."

The doctor frowned a little. "I wasn't aware there was anyone with you when you were admitted. There's no note of a next of kin on your chart, and the doctor from last shift didn't inform me of anything."

It took all of Sam's self-control not to panic. He was in a hospital—his arm barely worked. He couldn't even think straight, and he couldn't even remember how he got here. Worse yet, Dean wasn't there. Dean was nowhere to be found.

This wasn't okay. None of this made any sense. Dean would be here. Dean would be here if it he could, and Sam needed to think, he needed to remember, but everything hurt and he didn't know if Dean was okay, if Dean was safe, or what the _hell_ had happened.

The doctor's voice interrupted his thoughts. "You need to relax," he said gently, placating. "I don't know where your brother is. But I'll look into it for you, okay? Do you remember what happened before you got here? How you received your injuries?"

Sam's thoughts stirred. He remembered the warehouse, the spirit. Then the cops. Then the puma attacking him. Blood. It _hurt_.

He swallowed back his story. "No," he said shakily. "I don't remember anything."

It was a lie, but the only lie Sam could tell at the moment. If he wasn't sure how he got here, then he couldn't be sure if Dean had already told a cover story to the police. He couldn't give away anything until he touched base with Dean.

He just needed Dean.

The doctor gave him a small smile. "I'll send the nurse in to give you some more pain medication." At Sam's protest, he raised his hand. "Not a lot, but you need something. Trust me. You're barely awake right now, though I doubt you realize that. You'll want it once you wake up a little more."

Taking a shaky breath, Sam couldn't find the will to contradict him. He nodded meekly, his eyes trained downward.

"Now you rest," he said. "And I'll see what I can find out about your brother."

Sam didn't look up as the doctor left, just kept his eyes focused on the thin sheet that covered him. A feeling of helplessness assailed him. He was alone, he was hurt, and Dean was nowhere. If Dean wasn't here, then things were bad—really bad. Dean could be hurt or dead or he went back to finish it himself. He could need Sam's help, he might need Sam to save him, and Sam was laid up like some invalid.

Trying to push himself up, to move, to do _something_, his shoulder screamed out in pain, and he fell back, whimpering against the agony that pulsed through his body.

It was too much. He couldn't think, he couldn't breath. The world was closing in on him. Feeling defeated, he closed his eyes and couldn't stop the pull of sleep from taking him under.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Remember it's all still AU and hopefully not redundantly so. Thanks for those who review--it's about the only thing that helps me remember I'm still posting this fic :)

-o-

**Chapter Ten**

Henricksen was practically strutting as he paced back and forth across the room with a smugness that made Dean want to lie to him just for the sake of it. Because sitting there, being submissive, answering questions like a good little boy just wasn't his style, but at this point, he had no choice.

The problem was that Henricksen could see that, sense it, and he relished his position even more. He appeared calm, without any rush, as he continued his line of questions, which were, in fact, less questions than gloating and philosophizing. It was a game that Dean didn't want to play, normally wouldn't play, but it was for _Sam_ and that was enough to give him pause and was enough to grant Henricksen the smallest amount of respect.

"The fact is," Henricksen said, pausing in front of the two-way mirror, "you Winchesters have the most staggering body count following you around that I've ever seen. Lots of people are transient, move around a lot, but isn't it coincidental? The places you keep showing up all have strings of horrific murders and attacks. That's a bit more than coincidental, don't you think?" 

Dean shrugged."Trouble has followed us all our lives."

"More like you create trouble," he retorted. "Isn't that right, Dean?"

A smirk crossed Dean's face as he took a measured breath. "Believe it or not, I have many things I'd rather do than sit around and think of ways to get the FBI after me."

"So you admit that you've broken the law?"

Dean leaned back with a sigh. "You caught me," Dean said. "I've got a string of unpaid parking tickets like no other. Oh, and I jaywalked the other day. I know I should have walked down to the corner, but it was just so far away."

Henricksen's face showed no amusement. His eyes narrowed, and he paced to the side of the room. "The wise-ass routine is getting a little old, don't you think? It's not going to get you out of here. Not this time. You somehow managed to weasel your way out of Baltimore, and you managed to sneak out of the prison in Arkansas, but those were the minor leagues, my friend."

"You're forgetting about how you managed not to catch me in Milwaukee," Dean goaded, with a sly smile.

Henricksen's casual attitude flickered. "But I got you this time, didn't I? And I can promise you, no small scale county facilities now. I'm not letting you out of my sight."

It was Dean's turn to lose his humor. He clenched his teeth and said nothing. He'd already resigned himself to this and he wouldn't be baited, not with Sam's freedom in the balance.

That was the only opening Henricksen needed. He sauntered back toward the table. "It's not so much a question of whether or not you're guilty," he said. "It's more a question of how."

Dean refused to reply. Turning hismelf in was one thing; confessing to all the charges against him was a little harder. 

Henricksen continued. "Seems to me you're working with someone. It almost has to be. Someone else who could help you set up for all those theatrics you use to convince people of your point."

Dean raised his eyebrows, feigned interest, but again said nothing. Talking wouldn't get him anywhere.

The agent's eyes narrowed, feeling Dean out. He persisted. "Is it Bobby Singer?" Henricksen prompted. "I'd guess your Dad's old friend Caleb, but the guy turned up dead last year."

The references to friends, alive and dead, made Dean flinch. "I'm not working with anyone," Dean growled. It did not escape his notice that Henricksen knew more about him than he had even guessed, was aware of his connections, everything. It wasn't just his ass on the line, it was a lot of people, all for just helping him.

"It's someone, Dean," he said with a smooth grin. "Or a lot of someones. No way you've managed all this by yourself. Your daddy taught you well, but not that well."

"Leave my dad out of this."

"Awww," Henricksen said with mock sympathy. "Did we hit a raw spot, Dean? I know your dad's death is recent. And he left you with a mess of troubles, didn't he? The list of crimes starts with your daddy."

It took everything Dean had to control his seething. "You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said with a humorless smile.

"I think I know exactly what I'm talking about," Henricksen countered. "You're the oldest son of John and Mary Winchester. You lived a quiet and happy life for four years until the night of your brother's sixth month birthday. That was the night Mommy went up in flames and Daddy went off the deep end. Your aunt and uncle were pretty worried about you—seems you were shutting down emotionally, went a little mute on them, but Daddy skipped town with you and Sam before anyone could do anything about it."

The agent took to pacing, long, easy strides against the far wall as he spoke. "From then on, you were always on the road. A few years here, a few years there. A string of school files longer than anything I've ever seen—it's amazing you graduated and that Sam got into any college with his splotchy record. Then there's the insurance fraud we've traced to you, everything from stitches to broken bones to surgery, all topping off with the death of dear old Daddy."

Dean tensed, determined not to show his weakness.

When Henricksen got no response, he went on. "Of course, you have to account for the multiple notifications to CPS and all the bruises—clearly Daddy wasn't quite as loving as he should have been. It's no wonder Sam went off to school, cut all ties. He was going to get into law school. He would have been top of his class." He paused, looking at Dean disdainfully. "Until you came back into his life."

That was meant to hurt, and it did, but Dean wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. "Come on," Dean said, leaning back in his chair, forcing a relaxed tone. "We've been here and done this. Can't we get on to something new? Something a bit more recent?"

"Recent?" Henricksen repeated, considering. He laughed a little. "You mean like your association with one Madison Walker Or how about your arrest in Oklahoma?" He shook his head. "The way I figure it, all of this runs together. Your childhood, Sam's time away, your dad's death, your most recent disappearing act. The way your father managed to raise you like ghosts—almost makes me think there's a whole lot more there going on than we really know. What kind of connections did your dad have, anyway? I know he was in Vietnam—that kind of experience does things to a man. What'd it do to your dad?"

"Look, do you actually have any questions about something relevant or are you just going to speculate about the horrors of my childhood. So my dad never cried, never tucked me in at night, and spanked me when I was a kid. Still doesn't help you figure out just how I've managed to commit mass murder across the country, does it?" Dean was irate, his sarcastic edge vicious.

Henricksen grew silent, his jaw working angrily. "Relevant? You want relevant? Okay. Let's talk about relevance. How about Emily Watson?" he asked, throwing down a photo of a pretty and smiling young woman.

Dean tried not to look long at the photo.

"Found raped and murdered in her own home in St. Louis," Henricksen added, tossing down another picture of her mutilated body, bloody and half naked. He threw down another photo. An older couple, smiling and eating apple pie. "A couple that disappeared in Indiana after you passed through. Niece refuses to talk much about it, but says you were there." 

Furrowing his eyebrows, Dean wondered how Henricksen had made _that_ connection.

Pleased by Dean's silence, Henricksen tossed another photo out. "Evelyn Sanders--her throat slit in her own home. Your DNA was all over that one."

As was Sam's, but he trusted that Sarah would never talk. Her father...maybe...

"How about this one?" Henricksen said, putting another photo on the pile. "Meg Masters. Missing from her home in Andover for a _year_ before she turns up dead in _your_ friend's house."

Bobby undoubtedly had a story for that, but Dean knew the circumstantial evidence was mounting. On all counts.

"How about this one?" Henricksen said. This time it was a cop, looking smug. "Peter Sheridan. Baltimore cop. Partner says he was killed while transporting _you_. Right before you escaped. Sound a little suspicious, huh?"

That one really wasn't his fault, but Dean doubted that would make much difference. The older man seemed to be getting a steam on, and Dean didn't want to risk getting in his way. He was screwed enough as it was. Handcuffed to a table, he doubted he'd get much in the way of defending himself should the clean-cut cop decide to cross the line. Which, if he believed all that stuff _was_ Dean's fault, he wouldn't blame him, even if the guy was a moron.

The photos came faster now. "Margaret Tanner. Albert Tanner. Hell, the whole town of River Grove, which I still can't figure out. But I do know that you were there. And that that couple was plugged by a couple of shots that matches the caliber of a gun you carry. You and your little brother. How about Brady Reynolds? The disappearance of Ava Wilson? Madison Walker, which looks more like Sam than you, but we're not really here to talk about Sam, are we?"

Dean took a measured breath. The agent was trying to get a rise out of him, trying to get some kind of response. His only defense was to stay impassive. But he had to admit, the list of people he _hadn't_ saved was staggering. Disheartening. That hurt more than the implication that he'd been the one doing the murdering.

"How about him?" Henricksen said, putting out the photo of a young man, a cop, smiling broadly in his uniform. "Garrett Townsend. Three years on the force. Still in a coma over at the hospital from wounds he incurred while trying to make your arrest."

Dean clenched his teeth. This was too recent, too unfair. They'd try to save the cops—they really had. But when push had come to shove, Dean had to pick Sam before them. He couldn't really be sorry for it, but anytime someone was hurt when he could have saved them, it was hard to take.

"And this," Henricksen said, placing the photo of another cop in full uniform. This one was older. "Stuart Reynolds. Been on the force 24 years. He has a wife and three children. He died at the scene of the warehouse."

Carefully, Dean licked his lips, knowing he needed to tread lightly. People in law enforcement protected their own, were defensive of their own. "I didn't kill him," Dean said.

"He died coming to arrest _you_."

"And what did he die of?" Dean shot back, measured but still strong.

Henricksen's confidence shrunk at that. "Multiple lacerations."

"A mauling, right?" Dean prompted.

"It's inconclusive."

"Look, man, I appreciate the vote of confidence here, but I can't make wounds like that."

"Okay, then, smart ass, if you didn't do it, who did?"

"We've already been over this," Dean said shortly. "The answers are no different this time."

Nonplussed, Henricksen sat down, tilted his head. "We started this conversation," he agreed. "But we never finished it." 

Sighing, Dean couldn't contain his frustration. It was fun to mess with guys as tightly wound as Henricksen. But there was no point, no gain to it, and Dean was just getting tired of the redundancy. "I've already told the truth."

The agent snorted at this, tipping back in his chair. "You mean that confession of yours back in Baltimore? About spirits and ghosts? What's your excuse this time? How do you explain you guys once againbeing found at the epicenter of a string of murders?"

"We're not killing those people," Dean said with a shake of his head.

"Then what _are_ you doing?"

Dean's chin stuck out indignantly. "We're trying to stop it."

Henricksen leaned in, critically. "Stop what?"

"You mean, you? Mr. Answers? _You_ don't know?"

Henricksen slouched back, smiling somewhat. "What? An evil spirit? A poltergeist? That's what you tell people—which is really pretty clever. Feeding on people's fears and doubts and playing the savior of the very thing you're doing to them."

"If that was our gig, which it isn't," Dean began, noting emphatically, "then how do we always show up _after_ things start happening?"

"You guys are ghosts, like I said. Who knows when you get places and when you leave."

"Right, so in all your research, interviewing all those people we've screwed over, why haven't more of them hated us? I mean, you talked to them, right? What'd they tell you? Because most of them have seen what we've seen. They know the truth."

Henricksen's face paled and his lips thinned. "Tell me the truth, Dean," he said, the humor in his voice lessening.

"I've tried," Dean replied. "And you know it all anyway. You just won't believe it."

"That's because it's crazy," Henricksen snapped, throwing down the file. "You desecrate graves, steal things, tamper with evidence, prey on people when they're hurting. You impersonate officers of the law, lawyers, doctors—anybody to get to what you want and need. You and your brother must have some sadistic kink to get off on that stuff, but the thing is, I don't care. It's just my job to stop you and your string of crimes and killings."

Dean's eyes didn't waver from Henricksen's, staring back at him daringly. He had nothing left to lose, and no lie would get him out of this. The truth was his only recourse--besides, maybe it would help him cop an insanity plea if it all went truly south. "You lock us up? You're just condemning more people to die. We hunt the things that you don't believe in. The things that people like you leave innocent people to suffer from. When the cops can't stop something, we do. And we don't get to wear fancy suits or drive a BMW. We do it because it's the right thing to do."

"Aw, Dean, that's quite inspiring," Henricksen said, with mock sympathy. "I almost believe you. I'd believe you a lot more if you told me how you killed those people, the cops. How you pulled off all those special effects."

"I didn't kill anyone!" Dean yelled, his frustration breaking. There was always room to crack a joke, but Dean could only take so much. The walls were closing in on him, and he had nowhere else to go, no way out. Just him, Henricksen, and a long list of charges that could end his life. "But people are dying because you're too stupid to see the truth!"

Henricksen's sigh was a mix of frustration and weariness. "Fine," he relented. "You know, why don't you just spend some time tonight thinking over what you want to say. And we'll resume this scintillating conversation in the morning. Maybe the night will give you a new perspective on your situation."

There was an ominous glint in Henricksen's eye as he moved behind Dean. 

"Let's get you cuffed and ready to move," he suggested coldly.

Dean had no choice but to comply as Henricksen pulled him to his feet. He didn't struggle; he remained stoically still as Henricksen brought his arms together behind his back, fastening a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

"I'm sure you'll love your accommodations," he said with a smile. "In fact, I'm pretty sure they're less bug-infested than the usual places you stay."

The man's smugness made Dean cringe inside, made him want to turn around and hit him, but he willed himself to stay still and silent. He wasn't getting away from this one, and he could see no reason to make his situation more uncomfortable than it already was.

Still, humility was hard to swallow, no matter how much he knew he needed to.

-o-

The sleep was hard to shake. It clung to him, laying heavily on his mind, and he didn't know how long he lay there, unable to shake it free.

His awareness came back to him slowly, filtering through the haze one revelation at a time.

The first thing he knew was that he hurt. He couldn't remember why, and at that point, it didn't even matter. All he knew was that there was pain, throbbing, distant, real.

The second thing he knew was that he was in a hospital. More than that, he'd been drugged. Sedated. They'd told him that much last time.

Last time. 

His memory was jogged and awareness hit him again, harder this time.

They vision quest had gone wrong—again. The puma had gotten a hold of him, which was why he hurt. His shoulder was nearly unusable right now but they told him he was going to be okay. It'd hurt, but he was going to be okay.

But they hadn't been able to tell him where Dean was. Dean just wasn't here.

His eyes were open but it took him a minute to realize it. It took him another minute to make sense of the world around him.

The room came into focus, and it looked vaguely familiar. It was the same room he'd been in before. Same blank walls, same machines, his body still stretched out on the same bed.

Still no Dean.

His head was clearer though, and it was easier to keep the irrational panic at bay. Drugs did things to him—it was simply his curse. For as big a guy as he was, he couldn't hold his liquor and sedatives always made him loopy. 

Panicking wouldn't help him right now, though. He needed to keep it together, keep himself awake, and figure out what the hell happened. The calmer he remained, the more likely he was to get answers.

He'd been in enough hospitals to know he wouldn't have to wait too long for someone to check on him. He thought about pressing the call button, but it was above his shoulder to the right, and he simply didn't think he could wrangle his left arm in that direction without passing out from pain.

When the door opened, he was ready—expecting a nurse, maybe a doctor. Preferably Dean. 

The man who walked in was clad in a familiar white coat, but his face didn't trigger any recognition in Sam's muddled brain. The other doctor had been friendly, gentle. This man was taller, thinner, his face drawn and serious. His hair was dark, grayed around the edges, with stark thin eyebrows that cut low across his forehead.

He didn't know why, but this felt wrong. Very wrong. His desire for Dean flared up again, and he felt his control slipping.

"Mr. Winchester, I'm Dr. Beason," the man said. "I'm a psychiatrist here at the hospital." 

Sam's defenses flared. A shrink wasn't something he was expecting, and it wasn't a good development. He said nothing.

"I've been asked to assess you," he said simply, moving around toward Sam's bed.

Uncertainly, Sam kept his face impassive. "Assess me?By who?"

The man shrugged. "It's of no consequence," he said.

The brush off was more than Sam could handle. "Where's my brother?"

"Your brother's fine," he said shortly, with a dismissive cock of his head.

That wasn't the answer Sam was looking for. His defensiveness did not abate. "Great. So _where _is he?"

"That's of no concern to you right now, Sam," Dr. Beason said easily, picking up Sam's chart and pulling a pen out of his pocket. "You, however, are doing much better from what the notes on your chart say. You were admitted yesterday for severe lacerations, correct?"

Sam ignored him, refusing to relinquish his question. "Where is my brother?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The doctor was unimpressed. "Your brother has been arrested by the FBI. Where they've taken him, I don't know. But I do know that I've been asked to look into your case, try to figure out what trauma you've endured emotionally."

That was more information than Sam had counted on. The news on his own situation was hard to swallow, but the knowledge of where Dean was—that was nearly impossible to understand, to accept.

Dean had been arrested. Dean would never let himself get arrested. Dean was smarter than that, Dean would never let that happen. Not again. Not now. Not with things as they were. Dean was better than that. Unless—

Sam's stomach went cold and his vision darkened. He was going to throw up.

His body was convulsing with it, and he strained to his side, desperate to alleviate the growing pressure that was building in his esophagus. Suddenly something grabbed him, pulling him to the side and shoving his head down. Normally he'd resist, put up a fight, but he was too busy emptying his stomach to even attempt it.

The process hurt more than it seemed like it should, and he felt every claw mark on his chest as though it were being made. His shoulder simply felt numb.

When he was down, he didn't have the willpower to move, and he panted, his head still hanging down, bangs in his eyes.

He was then rolled efficiently onto his back. 

"We're going to have to get someone to clean that up," Dr. Beason said. "But that can wait, Sam. First, I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

Sam could still taste the burn of bile in his throat and his eyes were watery. Every breath strained at his stitches. Even that wasn't enough to assuage the terror he felt knowing what Dean surely had done.

Dean had traded himself for Sam's treatment.

And Sam didn't know what to do about that.

"Sam?"

Sam flicked weary eyes to the doctor who simply wouldn't seem to go away. "I have nothing to say," he said finally.

The doctor didn't seem surprised. "Well, that will certainly make this difficult," he said. Then he smiled. "But not impossible."

There was nothing to say, nothing Sam wanted to say anyway, so he merely stared back, daring the doctor to keep going.

The doctor, however, was not fazed. "Okay, then," he said. "If you're not willing to talk about yourself, then let me do a little speculation.

Tensing, Sam narrowed his eyes, but kept silent.

"I think you're suffering from a prolonged and untreated case of post traumatic stress disorder. The fire and your girlfriend's death turned your world upside down. Then, a year later, your father dies suddenly in a car accident you were all involved in. Your brother represents the only stable thing in your life. You feel like you need him because without him, you have no grounding. You do need grounding, however, the life Dean has you living is counterproductive to your recovery. The things you've seen, Sam, the things Dean's made you do, I'm sure that's taking a toll on you."

Sam felt himself trembling and tried to steady himself. Now was not the time to be weak. "Dean's doesn't make me do anything," he said. "I'm with him because I want to be."

The doctor's smile was sad and wan and completely condescending. "You're in denial, Sam," he said. "You condition has me worried enough to warrant committing you for psychiatric evaluation."

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "There's nothing wrong with me," he gritted out.

"You're showing no awareness of reality. You haven't coped with any of the losses in your life, and it's made you susceptible to following your brother on foolhardy and illegal activities across the country, with little regard to your safety or his."

The litany echoed in Sam's brain, making his heart race. "I'm coping just fine," he said.

"Sam, are you aware of what your brother has been doing?"

"My brother hasn't done anything," Sam said, shaking his head desperately.

"He's being held on multiple felony charges," Dr. Beason said. "He's wanted in at least three states for _murder_, among other things." The doctor shrugged. 

These were things Sam already knew. He kept up with the FBI database, checking it, trying to see how hot the trail was on them. It didn't make it any easier to hear, especially when he was laid out and drugged up in a hospital bed and Dean was locked up somewhere.

The look the doctor gave him was absolutely pitying. If Sam had had the strength, he would have scowled. He settled for a hardened look of resolve. "I don't have to talk to you."

Dr. Beason frowned a little, unimpressed. "Why don't you want to talk to me?" he asked. "What are you afraid you're going to say?"

He was persistent, Sam would give him that. Panic simmered just below Sam's resolve. "I just have nothing to say to you."

"Not about what you've been up to? What Dean's been up to?"

"We're taking a road trip," Sam ground out, the lie so ingrained that sometimes he nearly believed it.

"Taking in the sights, robbing banks, desecrating graves, and killing people," the doctor said with a nod. "Sounds normal enough. Tell me, Sam, how long has this been going on? When did Dean's behavior start? I know you were clean once; you went to college. But how long has it been like this for Dean?"

"Dean hasn't done _anything_," Sam insisted, his voice cracking. Sam could handle interrogation; he could handle pressure. But the meds were making him woozy, he couldn't move. Even lying took more effort than his body had to expend. And Dean was in _jail_ because Sam had been stupid enough to get himself _mauled_.

Dr. Beason sighed. "Unless you can talk rationally about your brother's behavior, then I'm afraid we have to take a more aggressive approach to your therapy, Sam."

"I don't want therapy," Sam replied, his voice hitching. "I want to leave."

Dr. Beason noted something on Sam's chart. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that," he said easily. "You could be a danger to yourself. Or others."

Sam struggled, trying to sit up, to move, to do something, but sit there and listen. "I'm not dangerous," he hissed, cursing the weakness of his own body.

"Not with those sedatives still in your system," the doctor noted dispassionately. "You need to rest more."

Reason was lost on Sam. He was losing control, and he knew it. He just wanted out, he wanted Dean. "I want to leave," he repeated. "You can't hold me here."

"I _can _hold you here," he said, looking up with a slight smile. "I don't think you understand, Sam. I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you how it is. Either you start your treatment on your terms, or we'll start it on ours. Either way, Sam, you will talk. It just depends if you'll do it in restraints and on medication or not."

With that, Dr. Beason replaced Sam's chart on the end of his bed, nodded with an airy nod, and walked out the room, flicking the light off as he did. 

Alone in the darkness, Sam worked to catch his breath, the doctor's words resounding within him with a clarity he could not shake. 


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I think things are probably going to have to get worse for these two before they get better. They're just so much fun to torture--it's really not my fault. Anyway, thank you to those who take the time to comment. And yes, last chatper I said Minnesota instead of Milwaukee. It's corrected now :)

-o-

**Chapter Eleven**

The cell was bleak and barren. Its contents were sparse and functional—a bed, a toilet, a sink. A pillow was placed neatly on a pile of starched white linens. 

The walls were concrete and cold and there were bars just like any clichéd TV show he'd ever seen. He would have expected more from the FBI, but he was in a local holding facility, and he figured maybe Henricksen was trying to unnerve him with the theatrics of the lonely cell.

Dean didn't want to admit that maybe it was working.

He could put up with a lot, that much he was sure of, but he'd never felt so out of options as he did tonight.

Last time they went to prison, it was a favor, a repaying of old debts. It was a job. And, like any job, they'd been sure to leave themselves an exit, one which Dean had never doubted would work, despite how much Sam angsted about it.

It wasn't like Dean _enjoyed _prison, but there'd been people around, a chance to socialize. He'd had _purpose_.

This time, he'd already lived up to his purpose—to save Sam. Prison wasn't a means to an end. It was simply the end.

That was depressing as hell. Not to mention that without Sammy around, he had no one to keep up face for, no one to poke and prod. A brooding Sam never failed to inspire his own carefree spirit. Dean could handle anything if Sam were there.

Sam wasn't here.

He had to remind himself that that was a relief. No matter how lonely he felt, no matter how hopeless his situation, he'd given Sam a chance at life—quite literally. Nothing could make him wish his brother to be here with him, no matter how much better he'd feel, no matter how much happier Dean would be with Sam by his side. The only times Dean ever felt truly alive was with Sam, was in their banter, in their give and take. It was all Dean ever wanted.

It was the thing he'd miss most about the outside world.

But he knew Sam would never make it here. Sam would never be happy in a place like this. They'd barely spent three days in the jail in Arkansas and it had nearly broken his little brother to pieces. That wasn't a flaw in his brother, just a fact.Sam was strong and capable and more resilient than Dean ever gave him credit for. But the bars, the inmates, the knowledge that he would be forever branded as a criminal—that didn't sit well with Sam. It made him nervous, vulnerable, ashamed. It simply made him unhappy. 

Sam would never be able to deal with the stigma. Sam was too busy trying to redeem himself, to prove to himself and the world that he wasn't evil, and being a convicted felon would only shatter whatever remained of Sam's fledging self-worth.

No, Sam needed his freedom, Dean was certain of that. He had guaranteed that. 

Right now, that was Dean's only comfort.

Sam could find a niche, sure, working in the library or something. Sam's mind was complex enough to entertain itself no matter what situation Sam found himself in. 

He sighed, pulling out the sheet and laying it over the bed. Throwing the pillow to the head of the bed, he sank into it.. It was thin and uncomfortable, and Dean could only imagine what it'd feel like spending the next fifty years on one of them.

He wished for some light, for some decoration, for something to do. Something to keep himself occupied. Something besides the thoughts of how lonely his life was about to become.

Then he thought of Sam, alone in a hospital bed, and just hoped it wasn't as bleak there.

-o-

The rest of the day passed in relative silence. Sam had no visitors, no one except the nurses who came around periodically and the doctor who did nothing more than glance at his chart during his rounds. Dr. Beason didn't come back, which Sam was grateful for on one level, but he knew the reason for the doctor's absence.

It was a psychological game. A tactic to increase Sam's sense of isolation, to intensify his loneliness. He wanted Sam to feel abandoned, backed into a corner. No doubt the rest of the staff was under orders to maintain a detachment with Sam. Not so that he should suffer physically, but to make him more ready to deal with his so-called psychological issues.

On one level, it was working. Sam did feel alone and isolated. He was feeling desperate and more than a little anxious. However, loneliness and isolation were not new things for him. He'd spent most of his life feeling that way. Anxiety was practically part of his lifestyle.

His childhood had been punctuated by periods of intense fear and loneliness. Ever since finding out monsters were real, Sam had felt betrayed and uncertain. Things were fine when his father and brother were near, but being left alone in motel rooms and in the backseat of the Impala had taken a toll on his young psyche. He'd waited by himself during too many dark nights. He'd seen his family come home bloody too many times. His father had given him weapons, incantations, salt to protect him, but what Sam had always wanted was normalcy. Normal people were safe. Normal people didn't have to worry that their Dad and brother might be killed hunting God-knew what. Normal children didn't stay up at night learning Latin to perform exorcisms, and they were happier for it.

Sam may well have been one to say that ignorance _was_ bliss. A bliss he'd been denied.

So if Dr. Beason thought isolating Sam would make him crack, the man was sorely mistaken, and Sam was more than a little proud of himself in that regard. He'd never turn on Dean, no matter how long they kept him alone or what drugs they gave him. There were some things Sam was sure of, and that was one of them. 

That didn't change the fact that his solitude was dangerous for Dean—not that Sam would crack, but that if Dean was being detained by the FBI, he'd need Sam to get him out. Sam wasn't keen on the idea of breaking his brother out of police custody, and he was even less keen on breaking him out of prison. But he'd do it, without question. The ethics of it hardly fazed him. Dean was his family, his _only _family, and Sam's morality knew no confusion on that point.

Escape--his _and_ Dean's--was imperative. Sam just didn't know how to go about it.

He still felt weak. Sitting up still strained him and left him feeling weary. Being upright made his head spin and his vision fade in and out, which was more than a little problematic.

So maybe it was a little soon to escape. Passing out on the floor beside his bed wouldn't do himself or Dean much good. But staying put would hardly fix things, either.

It was a conundrum, a delicate situation, and Sam felt like he should be able to figure a way out. He should be able to do _something _besides lie there like some kind of invalid.

His self-recriminations were cut short when the door opened.

Tensing, Sam tried to sit up a little, but settled for rolling his head in the direction of the door. With his aching body and his swimming head, it was about all he could manage. He was expecting Dr. Beason, so when he saw the amiable-looking doctor in the doorway he was surprised.

The man smiled at him, moving on light feet to the bed as he appraised Sam's state. "Sam, how are you feeling now?"

Face scrunched up, Sam didn't really want to think about it. "Okay," he lied.

"I'm Dr. Leland," he said. "I believe we met earlier, however you were rather distressed at the time."

Sam smiled feebly. "Sorry," he said.

"It's understandable," Dr. Leland said affably. "I understand your attack was quite traumatic."

Sam winced a little, trying not to think about it. He wasn't sure how much the doctor knew, but he probably couldn't know everything—at least not the whole homicidal puma spirit taking chunks out of him while he tried to defend misguided cops part.

He looked up with a sudden urgency. "How are the cops?"

Dr. Leland raised his eyebrows. "The cops?"

Sam swallowed back his concern nervously. He didn't need to incriminate himself. "There were two of them. Attacked at the same time I was."

"You mean the cops hurt while trying to apprehend you and your brother?"

Sam's smile was pathetic.

"I assume Dr. Beason informed you of the situation."

"That my brother's been arrested and that I'm being held for psychiatric evaluation," Sam muttered.

Dr. Leland nodded. "They say your brother injured the cops in his escape—that you were caught in the crossfire."

Sam had heard some ridiculous lies—hell, he'd _told_ some doozies in his day. But that one was about as pathetic as anything he'd heard. "What kind of crossfire can cause this?" Sam asked, nodding down at his gauzed body.

The doctor chewed his lip. "I was thinking the same thing," he said. "Your injuries—they're consisting with an animal attack. Maybe a mountain lion. They also match the injuries on the cops that were admitted."

"How are they?"

"One is still in critical care—he hasn't woken up yet. We're not sure he will."

Sam waited.

The doctor lifted his gaze and met Sam's steadily. "The other didn't make it. He bled out."

Stomach bottoming out, Sam struggled to maintain his breathing. They'd seen people die before, they'd been too late, but cops? No wonder they were in so much trouble.

"They've told me that you and your brother are bad characters. Involved with some bad stuff."

"I know what they say," Sam said softly, his breath coming in gentle pants. "But we didn't attack those cops. We tried to save them."

Impassively, the doctor studied him. "I don't know how you could have," he admitted. "The wounds—they're just—"

"Impossible," Sam finished for him.

With a rueful smile, the doctor shook his head. "You care to explain it to me?"

"I'm not sure you'd believe me if I did."

With a nod, the doctor grimaced. "I don't suppose I would."

"But I can promise you," Sam said, looking earnest. "My brother's innocent. And I need to find a way to help him." 

The doctor sighed a little. "You ready to get out of here?" he asked.

Sam swallowed, suspicious. "Where am I going?"

"We're going to transfer you to a regular room while we continue to monitor your injuries."

"What about the psych hold?"

Dr. Leland raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the chart and the notations there. "You need to stay for your injuries anyway. I'm sure Dr. Beason will be back to talk to you some more. Once he makes more formal assessments, he'll recommend a course of action to take for that part of your treatment."

Sam studied the man, trying to gauge him. He was genuine enough, though a bit devoid of personality. He lacked the vindictive nature of Dr. Beason and he certainly lacked the intent. No, this guy, Sam figured, just wanted to keep his patients alive and well.

That was good enough for Sam. That meant he could probe the guy for information—anything he needed to figure out just how much crap he was in and just how hard it would be to get out of it. "What kind of...treatment are we talking about here?"

Putting down the chart, the older man looked at him critically. "You're in a mess of trouble, son," he said. "I'm not sure I know what they want to keep you on, but I know the orders come from some place far higher up than this hospital. I know it's your brother who's in custody, but I get the sense you're not far from their radar. They seem to think you're just as much involved as he is--how come you're not in handcuffs, I don't know."

He'd known the news wouldn't be good, but he couldn't control how much it unnerved him. Dean arrested by the FBI. Sam embroiled in some psychological evaluation, undoubtedly to glean more damning information about his brother. And no way out. No allies. Nothing he could do.

But how? Why? Why _wasn't _Sam in cuffs? Why had Dean gotten caught at all?

The minute his mind posed the question, he knew the answer. Dean had turned himself in, offered himself for Sam, which was the only reason Sam had any semblance of freedom whatsoever. They were screwed over, and it was Sam's fault, and he didn't know what to do.

The doctor smiled gently. "Right now, you need to focus on getting better," he said. "I'm not sure you really realize just how much your body has been through. You're going to be laid up for quite some time. I don't foresee releasing you from this ward any time soon—with your lacerations in the state they were, you're going to be prone to infection. Your shoulder will need follow up care. All in all, you need rest and quiet. I'll be sure Dr. Beason is aware of my diagnosis."

Sam's eyes flashed up hopefully as he understood the doctor's words. A tentative smile teased his lips in gratitude. Figuring out how to get Dean and himself out of this mess was hard enough as it was--a respite from Dr. Beason would be a definite advantage. "Thank you."

"It's not for long," Dr. Leland said. "But I think you've got more than enough to think about with some shrink on a mission pestering you."

There were no words for Sam to say, no other way to express his gratitude.

"Now, rest up," the doctor advised. "You need to focus on your recovery now. We'll sort the rest out later."

Sam nodded absently as the doctor left his room. The door shut behind him, and Sam was alone again.

-o-

The nurse that helped transfer him to a regular room was middle aged and friendly, and she got him in a new pair of scrubs that were not quite as revealing as his others. "No sense flashing everyone now, is there?" she said with a wink.

Sam just smiled at her patiently and conceded himself to her ministrations.

"Well, now," she said. "Dr. Leland will be in to look at you in a bit. And, I believe it says that…Dr. Beason will be in to see you shortly. So you rest up."

Nodding, Sam feigned obedience until she left him in the room.

A wave of lassitude swept over him, and he felt the urge to sleep creep up on him with a force that surprised him.

Not yet. Not now.

He blocked the urge, focusing his mind instead. He had some time now—but not much, and he knew it. In the meantime, he needed a plan. The doctor was giving him some leniency, guaranteeing him some solitude, and Sam was grateful. He was pretty sure Dr. Leland hadn't given it to him for him to break out with. But that was the only thing he could do. He couldn't risk Dr. Beason coming back sooner rather than later. Because when that did happen, his chance to escape, his chance to help Dean would disappear.

No, he needed to get out of here—quickly and quietly and now. He spared no thought for reason, for rationality on that point. His need to flee was strong, overwhelming even the weakness of his body.

He glanced at the equipment around him—he was connected to so many things, so many leads and monitors that would protest any change in his status. He was pretty sure that disconnecting them without disabling them would send a team running his way. 

Deftly, he searched and flicked the sound to off on as many machines as he could find. Satisfied, he then turned to his own body, to begin disentangling himself from the leads.

Carefully, Sam gripped his IV, slipping it from his vein slowly and evenly. The sensation made him wince, but soon the tip was extracted, and he dropped it gratefully to the side. 

He was more than slightly thankful that he'd been upgraded to a regular room, which meant that the hospital gown he'd been forced to endure in ICU had been replaced by a nondescript white undershirt and thin cotton pants. He'd have to change into real clothes once he broke out, but at least he'd be covered enough to make his escape without mooning the entire world behind him, thanks to his nurse's benevolence.

Now that he was disconnected from the machines, he'd have to move—quickly. Undoubtedly the nurses would soon notice his lack of life signs on their own monitors. 

Tiredly, he slung himself to the side, nearly flinging himself off the bed. It was a graceless maneuver, but his limbs were weary, and he just needed to move any way he could. He hit the ground on all fours, and ripples of pain erupted through his upper body. Tears burned his eyes and he held in a cough. He definitely should have thought about that before he did it.

There was no time for that now.

Groping blindly, he reached under his bed, looking for the package of clothes he knew had to be under there. His fingers touched plastic and he gripped it, already rolling to his feet. 

It was a little like moving underwater, only more painful, slower. He reached the door and paused, taking two deep breaths. Now was not the time for weakness. He had to think like Dean, be like Dean.

He pushed the door open, standing surprisingly erect. Holding the bag discreetly at his side, he ducked down the hall away from the nurse's station, keeping his head bent forward so his bangs obscured his face.

Moving as fast his body would let him, he could feel his heart thumping in his chest, enhancing the pain that tingled through his injuries. The floor tiles blurred and the world was buzzing. _Keep moving, keep moving_.

A voice pricked his consciousness—a voice he recognized. Cold and sterile and vindictive. Dr. Beason.

Quelling his panic, he picked up his pace, eyes roaming desperately for an out—

There.

A door with a red exit sign over it.

Stairs.

Without a look around, he plunged through the door, letting it swing shut behind him, closing him off from the day-to-day activity of the floor. Alone, he collapsed against the wall, his breath coming in short, sharp spurts. His fingers felt numb, and he readjusted the bag in his sweaty hands.

It was too much. He couldn't do it. He didn't know how to do it.

He was on the floor before he knew his knees had started bending at all. Dropping his head to his knees, he couldn't stop the exhausted tears from falling.

He hurt. He hurt so badly, and he was just so tired. And he didn't know where his brother was. He didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know how to _find Dean_.

Find Dean. The words echoed in his mind, the only thing he could make sense of right now. He wouldn't find Dean sitting and crying in a hospital stairwell, that much was certain. Sucking in a breath, he forced himself to calm. He had to move.

Stiffly, he opened the bag, pulling out his shoes. If he was going to get very far, he'd need to keep his feet covered. Getting his shoes on, though, was easier said than done. His chest grated with the movement, and his shoulder refused to help at all. It was a slow process, a hard one, but soon his shoes were on. He thought about changing into his other clothes--at least his jeans, anyway, which may have survived some of the attack--but he wanted to clear the hospital sooner rather than later.

Now he had to move.

-o-

Somewhere between his moping and his worrying and after completing the greatest hits of Metallica in a gentle hum, Dean had fallen asleep, still curled atop the covers of the meager bed. It wasn't exactly comfortable and he didn't exactly feel secure, but a lifetime of hunting taught him to sleep when and where he could, no matter what. Exhaustion was a weakness, not an asset, and whenever he could curtail it, it was his duty to do so.

Not that he had much he could do here, especially with Sam still in the hospital. His options were thinking or sleeping, and sleeping seemed to be more productive, anyway. Sitting around and contemplating his impending doom, thinking about Sam alone in the hospital—none of it sounded appealing. Brooding was more Sam's style; sleep was more his, especially if there were things to kill, beer to drink, and girls to flirt with in la la land.

Even if there wasn't, it would help him be prepared for whatever tomorrow would bring. Not that he had much thought of escape, but he still didn't trust Henricksen and Sam was still caught somewhere in the middle of their back and forth. He needed to be alert, to make sure he gave the feds what they wanted, while making sure that nothing--_nothing­_--incriminated Sam or anyone else for that matter.

So sleep it was.

His dreams were vivid but pointless, and usually left him content, if confused, and usually gave him something to smile over in his showers in the morning.

This one was a doosy.

It was a werewolf hunt, a nasty one (weren't they all), and they were rescuing an unusually buxom blonde from the clutches of despair.

He'd just managed to kill a werewolf, seduce the girl back into his motel room (where Sam was conveniently not around--maybe even his brother was scoring some action of his own, because this was _Dean's_ dream and dreaming about a whiny Sam was kind of the last thing he wanted to do on the best of days) when an all too familiar voice cut him off. 

"Winchester."

It wasn't Sam, who was usually the buzz kill to his dreams. No, this voice was not quite as pleasant (did he really just admit that?), not quite as distinctive--no, this was...

"Winchester."

Henricksen?

Dean opened his eyes and found himself back in his cell, a blurry figure standing over him.

"Get up," Henricksen ordered.

"Good to see you, too," Dean quipped, looking up at him through bleary eyes.

"Get up." The words were harsher this time, more terse.

Dean grimaced, rolling over onto his back. "Dude, you should consider sleeping at night like normal people do."

Henricksen's patience snapped and he grabbed Dean roughly by his shirt, hauling him to his feet. "Shut your mouth," he seethed.

"Whoa, what's your problem?" Dean asked, trying to steady himself.

"Who's working with you?"

"I told you," Dean said. "It's just me and Sam. No one else."

Henricksen's movement was faster than Dean anticipated and the agent pushed Dean back, slamming him hard into the wall. "I'm done with the games," he said, his arm firmly against Dean's throat. "Who are you working with?"

Confusion took hold of Dean as he tried to fight down the tendrils of fear. Something had changed.

"You're here. Sam's in the hospital," Henricksen ground out. "So tell me who just killed a seventeen-year-old girl who got a flat tire on the south side of town. Mauled to death."

The news hit Dean hard, but it didn't really surprise him. It was only a matter of time before the puma struck again; the thing had to be more bloodthirsty than ever after Sam and Dean had restarted the ritual.

"So either you or your brother have mastered the art of being two places at once, or you have someone else working with you."

"Or try none of the above," Dean snapped, keeping his body tense in Henricksen's grasp. "I told you, Sam and I were trying to help, not looking to kill people."

Henricksen laughed humorlessly. "I'm out of patience with you, Dean. I want answers, and I want answers now or all bets are off the table."

Dean's throat tightened involuntarily, and panic flared through him. He struggled to keep his face impassive. He had done this all for Sam, every last sacrifice, and this fed _couldn't_ take that from him. He wouldn't let him. "What exactly are you saying here?" Dean asked, tentative and quiet.

Henricksen released him slowly, backing away slightly and eyeing Dean distrustfully. But Dean could see it in his eyes. Henricksen knew he'd hit a weak point, and Dean had no means of denying it. "I can't protect little brother for you if you're not going to cooperate. The deal for his freedom rests only on closing this case. If there are still murders happening out there, then the case is far from closed and I'll take Sammy down right along with you."

Pure anger surged through Dean. There was no_ way_ he'd let Henricksen pull the rug out from under him. "You seem to know me so well," he seethed. "Then think about it. If there was someone else out there, some other accomplice that somehow you missed in all your stellar investigating, then you'd have to know I'd never put his safety above Sam's. Not in a heartbeat. If there was someone else, I'd roll on him for Sam's sake. Unfortunately for the both of us, there isn't anyone. I'm telling you the truth."

Henricksen listened with restrained frustration. Yet, beneath that, Dean could see that the agent knew Dean was right. He knew it, but he clearly wasn't about to accept it.

"Think long and hard," Henricksen said, stepping to the door. "Next time I come back here, it'll be for answers. If I don't get what I want from you willingly, I'll find another way to do it. That's a promise."

Dean didn't even have a sarcastic reply for the agent as he stepped back through the door, shutting it behind him.

"Get some rest, Dean," he recommended, a sarcastic smirk crossing his face. "You'll need it."

Wearily, Dean melted back into his bed. Eyes closed, he leaned his head back against a wall. Henricksen wanted the truth, answers, and Dean would be more than happy to provide them if the man would believe them. The problem was, the agent seemed like more of the seeing-is-believing type, and unless Dean could conjure a ghost right there in the cell, he was probably pretty screwed.

Opening his eyes, he looked around at the dim, blank room.

Scratch that, he was _very_ screwed. And if he didn't come up with a plan fast, Sam would be too.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: This chapter is a bit slower...but it's some necessary transition that will build to a final climax. There's not much more to go in this fic. Hopefully it's not too redundant :)

-o-

**Chapter Twelve**

The hospital stairwells were winding and monotone. The levels all looked the same—a plain, drab shade of unhealthy beige that made Sam want to hurl more than he already did.

He might have actually thrown up, but he didn't stop long enough to find out. He stumbled down the stairs at a desperate gait, desperate to escape. If he didn't get out now, he might never get out, and if he didn't save Dean, he was pretty sure no one would.

He took the stairs as fast as he dared, trying not to trip over his own shoelaces as he took them two at a time with his long legs. Normally it wouldn't be a problem, but he felt exhausted in his condition, and his head felt so disconnected that he was amazed each time his foot hit the step and he didn't go tumbling head over heels the rest of the way down.

It seemed to take forever, a continual spiral of nondescript corridors until he finally saw the most beautiful thing he'd seen in days.

A lit up, red Exit sign.

Once outside, Sam finally let himself stop, taking shallow and rapid breaths in the cool night air. His head was spinning wildly, his vision dim around the edges and his chest tight enough to make him feel sick.

Leaning hard against the wall, Sam felt his legs give out, and he sunk to the ground.

Panting, he let his head rest against the wall of the hospital. Maybe it had been too early—the doctor did say he needed more bed rest.

But the doctor also wanted to lock him up in a psych ward until he rolled on his brother. Since that wasn't an option, breaking out was all he had left.

He sat there, gasping, trying to get his breathing under control for a moment more. He had to move—and quickly. It wasn't likely that the staff would take it well that he'd flown the coup on them. Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the hospital as possible.

Giving a nervous glance, he began to limp forward. His side ached a little and it was hard to catch his breath, and everything was so fuzzy—the painkillers no doubt. The drugs were also probably the only reason he wasn't doubled over in pain. The farther he got before they wore off the better, because if the pain was bad now, he couldn't bring himself to imagine his injuries without the numbness of painkillers.

As it was, he could move with a loping gait, his steps gentle to shield his upper body from excessive movement. Sticking to the shadows, he hedged along the edges of the building, blurring into the backdrop as he passed by the ambulance bay and into the city.

-o-

When Dean had been seven, Sam was three, and they had stayed in a motel in some town in Arizona. Dean couldn't remember the name of the town or even which school he'd gone to, but he could remember the expansive desert that seemed to stretch out behind the motel, all the grains of sand adding up and stretching toward the horizon in a sea as vast as the ocean Dean remembered from living in Florida.

There hadn't been a lot to do there, but in rundown motels, there was never a lot to do. Occasionally he found a video game in the motel lobby, but at the age of seven, his acts of subterfuge were meager at best, and his father didn't want them to leave the room.

The TV reception was crappy, and the AC was on the fritz, which made Sammy whiny and sweaty, which was never a good combination. Dean didn't know what job his dad was working, but he wasn't around a lot, and even John had thought that seven and three was too young to leave them alone.

So they were often left under the benevolent if absentminded care of their elderly motel owner. She was a widow, and she smelled vaguely like coffee and baby wipes. Old as she was, wrinkles were the least of her concerns, and she wobbled when she walked. The apartment she lived in looked just like the one they were renting, except for the decorations, of course.

Dean expected her to have things—lots of things, and he understood why they were always in disarray and dusty. Housekeeping had to be hard on her fragile bones, and she looked as wispy as one of the ghosts in his father's books.

But more than any of that, she had cats. Lots of cats. They were always coming and going, and Dean sometimes wondered where they disappeared to—the desert was wide and hot and uninhabitable. She had cats on her furniture, cats at her door, even cats in cages that she couldn't manage to latch anymore.

It was the cages that caught Dean's interest. She kept a small row of them behind the motel, under the shade of the small overhang, which barely blotted out the rays of the sun. It was the closest thing to a playground he could find in walking distance, so it would be good enough.

After exhausting their possibilities as climbing rocks, he realized that they were like mini-prisons. At first he enjoyed baiting the cats to them, placing bits of cat food inside to lure them in, before shutting the door in triumph.

It just made the cats mad, however, and they hissed and scratched too much to be fun to play with after that. Cops and robbers was fun, he supposed, but he had to be able to get close enough to interrogate his feline suspects.

Coaxing Sammy into the cages had been easier than getting the cats in there, but when Dean closed the cage door, Sam had turned to him in surprise.

He would never forget that—Sam's grubby fingers clinging through the wires of the cage, the way his eyes looked so big through the opening. He looked so vulnerable in there as he broke into tears and begged Dean to let him out.

Sam's wails tore across the desert, and for a second, Dean was frozen in place, looking down at his little brother, holed up in the cage meant for an animal. His little face pleading, his eyes wide with tears, and all because his big brother had put him there.

There was a clang and a voice, and Dean jerked, blinking his eyes and realizing he'd been asleep.

Tiredly, he squinted toward the door, surprised to see Henricksen on the outside. Slowly, Dean sat himself up, trying to shake off the vestige of memory, trying not to remember the look of betrayal on Sam's face.

"Okay," Henricksen said simply.

Dean waited, then raised his eyebrows expectantly. "Okay what?"

"Show me."

"Can we be a little more specific here?"

"You say you can prove it's supernatural or whatever. So show me."

Dean glanced around the small cell. "I can't exactly do it here."

"Where do you need to do it?"

"The warehouse. That's where all the materials are."

"We raided the warehouse. There was nothing there."

"Of course there was nothing there," Dean said in exasperation. "They need to be summoned."

"Right," Henricksen said with a sarcastic nod. "And you can do that?"

"With the right stuff."

"Make a list," Henricksen said, pulling a pad of paper from his pocket. "Check it twice. I'll be back for it in an hour and then we'll talk about when we're leaving."

Henricksen tossed a pad and a pen on the bed, before turning and stalking out, locking the cell behind him, while Dean just watched him go.

-o-

The night was long. His first priority was to distance himself from the hospital, which he did mindlessly until the painkillers faded away and the pain was too intense. Then he'd broken into a construction site, changing into his jeans and putting on his shoes in the makeshift office. He made himself a pot of bad coffee, which he drank while he searched half-heartedly through the remnants of yesterday's paper.

It wasn't hard to find out what had happened to Dean—the information was all over the news. Turned out the shrink had been truthful about a few things—Dean was indeed in FBI custody, wanted on sundry charges ranging from grave desecration to murder. The papers were touting it as a victory for the FBI, a sure sign that all was well in law enforcement, and the media was already buzzing about when a trial date would be set.

Sam had been left completely out of the headlines, only mentioned as an unwitting tagalong to Dean's escapades. His face wasn't in any of the papers and was cropped out of all the photographs on the news. It was adding up, so clearly that even Sam's pain-addled mind could make sense of it. Dean had made a deal, a deal to protect Sam at the expense of his own freedom.

Sam supposed there was something to be grateful for in that. It made his movement around town much easier. In theory, anyway.

He left in the early dawn, setting out into the city feeling jittery and tense. Absently, he headed away from the hospital—the greater the distance, the better he'd feel. It wasn't easy though. His body more than ached—it hurt—sharp and intense pain that just wouldn't quit. On top of that, his clothes were a bit problematic. He hadn't even bothered with his shredded shirt, and his jeans were dark and crusty with blood and had a foul odor to them. And he was hungry—no, starving. The coffee had woken him up a little, but had done nothing to quell his need for food. His stomach was nearly cramped with hunger pains. But, more than anything, he just wanted to lie down and sleep.

Exhausted on every level, Sam found himself sinking to a bench along the city street. He just needed a minute to catch his breath.

That's when he saw the headline of today's paper in the machine. _"Killer strikes again: main suspect behind bars; authorities baffled." _

Frantically, his exhaustion forgotten, Sam stumbled to the small machine, fumbling through his pockets for change. The next thing he knew, he was planted firmly in the bench, his hands trembling as he tried to read the front page story.

Same M.O. Body mauled in an animalistic fashion with no sign of any animal presence. Same area too. Only this time the main suspect was behind bars and the only known associate was in the hospital.

Or _had _been in the hospital.

His nerves fraying even more, Sam pushed himself up. Once people caught word he was out of the hospital, he was pretty sure he'd be moved up to the main suspect, which was a complication he _didn't_ need. With this development, he needed to keep a low profile before he accidentally got himself caught. Sitting around half-aware on public streets probably wasn't the way to go about it. He needed to find someplace to regroup, to clean up, to eat.

Better yet, he needed to find Dean, talk to him somehow, and figure out a plan.

Stuffing the newspaper in his back pocket, he pushed himself up and began down the street, trying to be discreet.

Sam's vision tunneled suddenly and he threw a hand out against the building he was passing, struggling to find his equilibrium. Thinking would be easier if his head wasn't so fuzzy. Maybe he'd checked out a little too soon.

He straightened himself, shaking away his dizziness. A woman passing by gave him a lingering glance. No, lurching around on city streets looking like death warmed over wasn't the best way to stay out of the public eye.

With a deep breath, he steadied himself, moving out again down the street. He didn't have time for this, didn't have the luxury of recovery. No, he had to fix this.

Finding Dean would be easy enough on one level, but impossible on another. He could easily find where they were keeping Dean, but getting Dean out? That would be a miracle in and of itself. He'd have better luck convincing the FBI to drop all the charges and let him go. And given what little he knew of Henricksen--that wouldn't happen until hell froze over.

One thing was certain: he needed to get out of the public eye and regroup. He needed rest, supplies. He needed to find their last motel room and hope to hell that the FBI had left it mostly intact. He just needed to be patient, wait for a plan, a sign, _something_. He was no good to Dean if he passed out cold on a city street and got himself hauled back into the hospital, or, worse yet, prison.

First, however, he needed a car. Woozy or not, that was something Sam knew he'd have no trouble with.

-o-

The list was pretty simple.

It didn't have anything on it.

Sure, Dean could have asked for the herbs and candles and all that jazz—but truthfully, Dean couldn't remember half of it, and there was no sense setting up the ritual when he didn't know the words.

So Dean just gave him the address.

To his surprise, Henricksen had accepted it with alacrity and told him to move.

As much as Dean hated to be in prison, he disliked being transported in custody even more. Escape simply wasn't an option, so being that close to the outside world but not being allowed to be a part of it was a bit cruel. More than that, though, he had to go everywhere in handcuffs, which wasn't exactly his favorite way to travel.

Not to mention the fact that it made him more than a little nervous. Since escape was pretty low on his to-do list at the moment, his safety seemed to be his primary concern. And he knew from experience that more cops present was better than very few—they tended to keep each other in check. Dean had already been on the wrong side of a cop's personal vendetta and had nearly gotten a bullet in the head for it.

Baltimore had been an entirely different affair, with an entirely different cop doing the signing out. All in all, he didn't have Henricksen pegged as the rogue type—anything but. But it still left Dean vulnerable, especially since he knew Sam wouldn't be around to break him out, and that was not a feeling Dean relished.

His fears seemed unfounded though. A uniformed cop escorted them both to the door, helping Dean into the car before the Fed dismissed him and climbed in the driver's seat. "You ready?" he asked, looking in the mirror at Dean.

Dean forced a smile. "As I'll ever be."

Twenty minutes later they were at the paper warehouse, which looked unusually deserted in the desert morning. Henricksen helped him out and steered him to the door.

"I took the liberty of closing the place for the day," Henricksen explained. "No sense putting civilians at risk."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Since I'm such a huge threat."

The agent pushed him forward, conveying his annoyance.

At the front door, Henricksen unlocked it, guiding Dean inside. "So," he said. "Where to?"

"Where to what?" Dean asked.

"Where are we likely to meet your friend?"

"Ah, right," Dean said. "The unnamed accomplice that doesn't exist. Try the homicidal spirit you're probably going to need me to vanquish."

Henricksen was not amused. "We're not here to enjoy ourselves."

"No, that's why you arrest innocent people," Dean said with a knowing nod. "I prefer less obtrusive past times like pool or—"

"This is your last chance—"

"The back," Dean replied shortly. Helping this guy wasn't high on his list of things he _wanted_ to do, but it was likely the only chance at leniency he had. It was also the only chance of showing him what was really going on. "That's where this started before, so if I had to guess it would start there again."

With slit eyes, the agent studied Dean a moment before giving him a shove toward the back. Dean tripped ahead, still striving for obedience despite all his desires to the contrary.

Once in the back, Henricksen found a pair of chairs and lined them up next to each other. He motioned for Dean to sit in one, which Dean did. The agent then kneeled behind him, rummaging.

"Dude," Dean said. "I don't really swing like that."

Something metallic cuffed his wrist right above the pair he'd been brought in.

"Two pairs?" Dean asked, almost bemused. "Really?"

Henricksen grunted, closing the cuff around a back spoke of the chair. "Not only do I want you not to be able to use your hands," he explained. "But I don't really want you running anywhere."

"I'm not going to be able to do much while handcuffed," Dean pointed out, tugging restlessly at his bindings.

"That's kind of the point," replied Henricksen.

Dean sighed, shifting his weight. "Then what are we doing here?"

Henricksen smirked, resting his hand on his gun. "Waiting for your friends to show—see who's helping you, and make a few more arrests to tie this case up."

The sheer stupidity of it made Dean laugh. "You're kidding, right? You think we hang around here until my accomplice or whatever shows up and you'll get a few more notches in your belt?"

"And a few more nails in your coffin," Henricksen concluded. He looked steadily into Dean's eyes. "You're going to go down for a very long time, probably forever, and I just want to be sure that your influence is scoured from the face of this earth if it's the last thing I do."

"You think so," Dean said, his gaze just as steady. "I'll tell you something, though. You don't let me out of these things, and if we don't start the ritual right now, then we're both going down for a very long time."

At this, Henricksen's eyes narrowed, and Dean had to give the guy credit. He knew how to stick to his guns. He knew what he wanted and he was ruthless in his pursuit of that. In other circumstances, they could have been good partners, solid allies.

Under these circumstances, though, Dean wanted knock the guy unconscious before he got them _both _killed. They were on a stakeout all right, but Dean was pretty sure slapping cuffs on some half-man, half-cat, half-spirit wouldn't actually go too well. He struggled discreetly at the cuffs again; if he could just get loose, they might have a chance.

Then again, Dean had just created a one and a half part being, so maybe he could really use some back up on this one. Where was his trusty sidekick geekboy when he needed him?

Dean swallowed hard and steeled his gaze back at Henricksen. Fast-talking wouldn't do him any good here, he was sure at that. Maybe honesty would be the best policy. Sam always seemed so keen on it.

Henricksen was studying, deeply and detachedly, his gaze considering. "Is that a threat, Winchester?"

"Man, that's just the truth," Dean told him. "I'm a sitting duck here with these things on, and while I may not be too keen on saving _your_ ass, I really don't want to sacrifice my own."

Henricksen's smirk was cocky and perturbed—just so typical. Biting back another comment, Dean wasn't sure what to hope for. If the puma showed itself, Henricksen might believe him, but as he was handcuffed to a chair, chances were neither would survive the encounter. If the puma didn't show, then Henricksen would simply have more fodder for the case that Dean was a criminal mastermind.

Dean was a mastermind, no doubt, and probably technically a criminal. But Henricksen wanted to prove it for all the wrong reasons, and Dean felt a little like he was in the middle of a witch trial, for what it was worth.

Henricksen just didn't realize that it wasn't _only _Dean's future that was at stake, but both of theirs, and a whole hell of a lot more.

-o-

Stealing the car wouldn't be a problem. But first he had to figure out where the hell he was going.

He had a good sense of direction under most circumstances, but he had no bearings. Their investigation had relegated them to only one section of the city, and being unconscious during his trip to the hospital, it was difficult for him to ascertain where that had been in relation to the rest of the places in town. In fact, he couldn't even remember the name of the motel they had stayed at. There were so many motels, all with stupid and corny names and flickering neon lights--all the same in their mediocre quality and cheesy decor and why couldn't Sam just remember?

He tried--he really did--but, it seemed like it had been weeks since he'd driven into town and checked them in. If he thought hard enough, he could almost see it. That wasn't exactly a solid address, but it was good enough for now. All he needed to do was get in the general area and he was pretty sure that the place would stand out with yellow tape adorning their motel room door. He didn't doubt that Henricksen and his crew had found the place and had likely ransacked it looking for incriminating evidence. He could only hope it wasn't under constant surveillance since Dean was in custody and he was supposedly still secure in the hospital.

It was a risk, a big one, but Sam needed his supplies if he had a chance in hell of getting them out of this mess. Besides, he doubted that he could just check into a motel room looking like he did. His best bet was their abandoned room. Best bet or not, it still didn't mean that getting there would be easy. Especially when Sam was not exactly up to par.

Dean was in police custody though, and that was what mattered.

At least that was what Sam kept telling himself as he broke into the car.

It was the first car he'd seen in a moderately full parking lot. Sam had broken into plenty of cars in his day, so it wasn't really a question of ability or ethics, but trying to be nonchalant when the entire world was spinning lazily around his head was not exactly the easiest thing.

In the end, he was just glad he managed to drive the whole way there without passing out.

Well, almost the full way there. All too aware of the dangers of stolen cars by a crime scene, he ditched the thing a few miles down the road at an abandoned gas station.

Climbing out of the car and into the sweltering heat, he shielded his eyes and looked down the highway. The horizon shimmered in the heat and Sam could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. Almost immediately, his shoulder ached and Sam realized this was going to be a long walk.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Just two chapters after this. I'm looking forward to being done with it! Thank you to those who read and review :) And sendintheclowns who is far, far too nice to me. And to graham crackers for being the most amazing things EVER.

-o-

**Chapter Thirteen**

The motel room stank, but Sam didn't even have the energy to open up the window. It was musty from being locked up so tight with the air conditioning off. It didn't matter, though; Sam was already too weakened to have it impact him at all.

Instead, he staggered to the far bed, collapsing on it gracelessly, feeling both exhausted and restless at the same time.

Sam was usually a patient guy. He knew that things took time, things took work. Especially hunts. For as climactic and action packed as they could be, all the drama was typically at the end, only a resolution to a long and drawn out research and interview process, which was usually Sam's area of expertise.

So Sam understood patience. He'd dated Jess for nearly two years and he'd been a straight A student at Stanford—patience sort of came with the territory.

But Sam could not keep himself calm and anchored at all. Not now. Not with Dean in police custody, facing more charges than Sam's tired and addled brain cared to remember. Every time he tried to think beyond grave desecration and robbery, some part of him hurt, and usually not the same part, and his mind was stuck playing mental tag with the ailments of his body.

What Sam needed was a plan. He needed a course of action, some kind of strategy.

Too bad the best he could come up with was nothing more than _get Dean out_.

He chewed his bottom lip. But how? He'd gotten this far, and he was terrified to admit that he didn't know what to do next.

Perhaps even more terrifying was that the most alluring plan he could come up with involved him sleeping—long and hard and...

He jerked his head upright. He _had_ to stay awake. To plan. To strategize. He had to help Dean.

A wave of nausea rolled through him and his stomach lurched. Nothing but pure dread kept it down; he didn't think he could have moved enough to project his own vomit clear of his body at this rate.

Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling and tried to clear his mind. He tried to move past the nausea, to let the pain abate.

Neither happened.

The pain was intensifying, steady and slow, and Sam needed to do something about it. Without thinking, he rolled, throwing his legs over the bed with the last vestige of his energy.

Standing was a mistake. The adrenaline that got him here let him down, and the pain in his chest and shoulder radiated through him mercilessly. His legs gave way and the ground rushed up to meet him, sending new fire running up and down his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to make it go away, all of it, enough of it, _anything_.

With a hiccupping breath, he realized that the pain was not going to dissipate by waiting it out. The intensity, maybe a little, but the fact was that his pain meds were working their way out of his system and he'd overtaxed his body already with his escape. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and even remembering when he'd had a drink was getting hazy.

His body was going to shut down at this rate, which was not something he or Dean could afford.

First things first, he needed to deal with the pain. He couldn't expect to do anything until he could control the vibrant anguish.

Trembling, he forced his eyes open, waiting for the room to settle. From his position on the floor, he could look up at the dresser.

And there it was. Blessedly close. The First Aid kit. He knew it wouldn't have the same pain killers the hospital had pumped him full of, but they still had some good stuff, and at this point Sam would settle for a couple of aspirin.

His crawl was slow and lurching, and reaching up strained him almost more than he could endure and he could feel his stitching tugging painfully against his skin. But it was worth it—just an inch farther—

The bag tumbled to the floor and he nearly cried with relief. With trembling fingers, he unzipped the bag, still on his hands and knees. The contents blurred together and for a second he felt his breath catch in his throat. Gauze, antibiotics, thread—not what he wanted, not what he needed.

Then he saw it. The white bottle was an economy-size, and he didn't know exactly what kind it was. He didn't care. Sitting up just slightly with a curse, he twisted off the safety lid and tilted the bottle over, catching the pills that spilled from it.

Too many fell out, but he ignored it. Shaking his hand, he settled when he had three in his grip. It wouldn't be enough, he knew. Nothing short of a prescription pain medication would. But he just needed something to take the edge off, just a little so he could focus on getting Dean out.

He swallowed them dry—the water was simply too far away. They stuck in his throat, and he swallowed convulsively until it went down.

Exhausted, he let himself drop to the ground, and prayed for the drug to take effect.

Jerking, he realized time had passed. The room was dimmer, but just as still and stale as before. Cursing himself, he pushed himself up. Dean was in _jail_ and he was taking a nap. He needed to be working, planning—figuring out his options.

What he had was a whole lot of _nothing_. Their stuff, sure, but ideas, no. The room was relatively undisturbed. To his relief, the FBI had only confiscated the weaponry. Most of the other supplies—the notes and the herbs and candles—had been left.

It didn't help him come up with a plan though.

Sprawled on the bed, he tried to think what Dean would do, what Dean _had _done. Dean had sacrificed his freedom for Sam. What could Sam give back?

He could finish the hunt, stop the murders. Part of him yearned to do that, to save more lives. But as much as he hated to admit it, the ongoing presence of the puma spirit meant more evidence to support Dean was innocent.

Though, he thought ruefully, it also started to condemn him more and more. It would look rather coincidental--the timing of his escape and the newest victim. Which would make Dean's sacrifice for naught.

He could take care of that later, though, when Dean was by his side. That was the key: getting Dean back.

Drawing a shaky hand over his face, Sam tried to make himself focus. His thoughts were scattered, uncontrollable. He felt like a little kid off his ADD meds. Sam was never like this, not at all, so why were his nerves picking such an _awful _time to assert themselves?

He had to think like Dean. Be like Dean. His brother was collected under pressure. Cool. Confident. His brother had probably sat on a bed just like this and made the hardest decision of his life. Sam could almost see it. Dean'd just picked up the phone and called, no questions asked. His brother wouldn't have hesitated.

Just called.

The FBI.

Sam's mind reeled, the thoughts flying so fast he could barely hold onto them.

He couldn't do _anything_ until he found out where Dean was. He wasn't sure what he'd do with the info, but if he at least knew where Dean was being held, what the facility was like—then Sam could plan his next step.

His phone.

Grappling, he went for his jacket pocket where he'd dumped it after emptying out the bag from the hospital. His fingers curled around it, and he pulled it out. To his luck, he had turned it off before they went on the hunt, so it was still charged. It wasn't much, but at this point he'd take what he could get.

Fumbling through the drawers, he found the phone book, and flipped it open to the government pages. How he ever actually saw clearly enough to read the numbers, Sam wasn't sure, but his fingers were dialing practically without his consent. Sitting heavily on the bed, he listened while it rang, and he rallied his strength.

It was like a switch had been flipped. Sam's nerves vanished and his weakness fell away. One steadying breath while the phone rang, and he was ready.

The receptionist answered, sounding perfunctory and a little tired.

Sam didn't hesitate. "I need to speak with Agent Henricksen immediately," he said, his voice gruff and to the point. It was an act, of course, attempting to make the poor schmuck on the other end comply. It was also his only recourse—anything less than that and his pain and fear would bleed through.

"May I ask who's calling?" the secretary on the other end asked, impressively nonplussed.

"This is Deputy Director Alvin Platte," he continued without missing a beat. "I'm calling in regards to a recent arrest he made."

There was the distant sound of fingers on a keyboard. "Agent Henricksen has left the facility."

"Can you tell me the status of his prisoner?" Sam snapped.

There was more typing. "What were your credentials again, sir?"

"Don't make me speak to your supervisor," Sam threatened. "Dean Winchester. Where is he being held? I gave Henricksen strict orders—"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, sounding apologetic. "The prisoner has been moved."

"Moved?" Sam snapped. "By who?"

"Agent Henricksen signed the orders," she said.

The pounding of Sam's heart was deafening, but he willed it to the background. There were priorities, things to deal with, Dean. "Does it say where to?"

"No," she said. "Just that it is a trip to further the investigation, possibly a way to find additional accomplices."

Accomplices? Further the investigation? What exactly was Henricksen hoping to find and why was Dean going along with it?

"Sir? Did you need anything else?"

Sam barely heard her. It was pure reflex that he managed to respond at all. "No, no, thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful."

The call ended, and Sam was shaking. He couldn't move his hand to take the phone away. Adrenaline was pumping through him, pulsing with every heartbeat, and the intensity of it was making it hard to think.

Dean had been moved.

He should have seen that coming. He knew they wouldn't keep Dean locally forever, not with all the charges.

But released into Henricksen's personal care?

That was suspicious, and Sam let his arm drop listlessly to the bed. He couldn't help but remember the last time Dean had been remitted into the personal care of an officer of the law—a little excursion that had nearly gotten him killed.

But that wasn't Henricksen's style. Sam had done his research. Henricksen, though perhaps a bit of a dick, was a clean cop. A straight up, good American citizen, zealously defending the American legal system. He wasn't the type to go off half-cocked and harm someone in his custody. Not necessarily for the sake of the accused, but for the sake of his own impeccable record.

No, that meant Henricksen was planning something. Something big.

Realization dawned and Sam cursed his own obliviousness under his breath. All the blood loss and drugs were interfering with his common sense.

Henricksen had a point to prove, only now Dean wasn't his only suspect. After all, Dean had been in his custody when the latest attack had occurred. That meant Henricksen's arrest rampage wasn't done yet.

The guy had probably taken Dean with him to set a trap for whatever accomplices he surmised the great Dean Winchester to have.

The place for such a meeting to occur? Undoubtedly the Paper Warehouse. Even if Henricksen hadn't figured out that it was the centralized location, Dean would clue him in on that much. Because Dean's concern in all of this wouldn't be to cut himself a deal but to save more lives. Dean would tell Henricksen the right location in the hopes of finishing the hunt and escaping.

Sam's stomach flipped uneasily and he felt his head going light. This was _not_ good.

Sam didn't doubt his brother's abilities—not for a second. That didn't change the fact that Dean would be limited while in custody. If Sam had Henricksen as well pegged as he thought he did, it was likely that Dean would never get out of his handcuffs long enough to mount any kind of defense against the puma, much less escape.

Dean needed his help. Sam needed to show up at the warehouse and help finish the ritual. As long as Michael was stopped and Dean was safe, Sam would deal with the rest of the consequences thereof, whether that meant another trip to the hospital or finding himself in police custody, he didn't care. Dean came first; then the town. Sam himself was a low priority.

Resolved, he pushed himself to stand, and a feeling of confidence swept over him when the room didn't spin lazy circles around his head. He was improving—his steadiness was returning and the fuzziness was fading. The rest surely helped, and having a plan made his adrenaline moving. No doubt it was a temporary high, but he'd ride it as long as he could to get the job done.

Taking a step forward, he reached down to collect his notes and the leftover supplies for the ritual, and instantly regretted it. A wave of vertigo nearly took him down and he listed heavily toward the bed, throwing out one hand to steady himself.

He may be getting better, but he definitely wasn't on top of his game. Hell, he might not be there without a few more days' bed rest and some really good drugs, but that really wasn't an option at this point.

He had a job to do. He had to save his brother's life.

Lifting himself again, Sam set his jaw, ignoring the tremors that shook his body, and headed out the door.

-o-

The warehouse was silent, almost eerily so amid the stacks of papers and boxes that surrounded them. Henricksen paced the floor in front of him, eyeing Dean skeptically with each pass.

Dean just rolled his eyes, and tried to keep his weight shifting. His butt was already going numb and with his wrists handcuffed behind him, his arms weren't exactly feeling hot either.

Henricksen looked anxious, almost excited. Here the guy thought he was going to make the catch of a lifetime and bring Dean Winchester to his knees.

The only thing they _might_ catch was a maniacal puma spirit merged with some idealistic kid. Henricksen's bullets might have some effect on the kid, but Dean was pretty sure when the freaky crap hit the fan, Michael and his puma half would have the upper hand.

And what sucked more than anything else? Dean was handcuffed to a chair. All nice, primed and perfect bait for the puma's homicidal intent. Henricksen had set an ideal trap, he just didn't know what he was hunting.

It was a weird feeling, waiting for disaster. Sure, it was possible the puma _wouldn't_ strike. But that just didn't seem like typical Winchester luck.

Besides, the puma has waited less than 24 hours after being recalled before taking another victim. That was a quick turnaround. Before, the attacks had been well spaced out. The puma seemed to be attacking with a new vengeance. Clearly the second summoning ritual had riled it in some way.

He probably should have been nervous, but he didn't want to give Henricksen the satisfaction. And it just wasn't his style.

He sighed loudly, with an overdramatic flair that elicited a look from Henricksen.

He huffed again, this time earning him a glare.

"Problem?" Henricksen asked curtly.

Dean just raised his eyebrows. "You've had me handcuffed to this chair for _hours_. There's no accomplice."

Henricksen looked perturbed. "Thought you said we'd have some company showing up."

"Not any company that I _want_ to see."

Henricksen took to pacing again, seeming to weigh Dean's words. "Could be they got tipped off somehow."

"Or could be they don't exist," Dean tried again. "Though getting that point across to you is kind of like bashing my head against a brick wall."

The glare Henricksen shot him was deadly. "Keep trying."

Dean feigned hurt. "You wound me."

Before Henricksen could reply, the stillness was broken by the chirping of Henricksen's phone. He gave Dean a purposeful stare before removing the device from his belt and holding it to his ear. He turned his body away slightly, but kept Dean easily within his sights. "Henricksen," he barked into the phone.

Then the nodding started, punctuated with intermittent sounds of understanding.

With the agent's attention divided, Dean tested the bonds again, fiddling around to see what he could reach. If he just had a paperclip—

"What? What? Damn it," Henricksen snapped suddenly, bringing Dean's attention back up. "When? Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

He snapped the phone shut and turned back to Dean, his eyes narrowed. He moved back to Dean. "Your brother's MIA," he said, unconsciously checking his gun.

Dean perked up, his heart constricting in a combination of fear and relief. "What?" No matter what the scenario, ignorance was his best policy.

"Looks like he disappeared from the hospital," he said. He turned stony eyes on Dean. "Guess maybe you didn't need a mystery partner after all. It was Sam all along."

"I told you, Sam had nothing to do with this," Dean said again, the line coming out strong and defiant, no matter how much of a lie it was.

Henricksen gave a smirk of a smile. "I believed you once and made a deal I shouldn't have," he said. "But now someone else is dead the same night your nice, innocent little brother breaks out of the hospital? A little coincidental, don't you think?"

"Broke out? He was supposed to be free to go."

Amused, Henricksen cocked his head. "Well, let's just say I didn't trust him completely. He was under evaluation by the psychiatrist to assess his mental state."

"You had him committed?" Dean asked, too shocked to believe it.

The agent shrugged. "Only if he wouldn't cooperate."

"We had a deal," Dean seethed.

"And you were supposed to fully cooperate, which hasn't exactly happened. Time to call it even, I suppose."

Dean tensed, wanting to stand, wanting to punch the smirk right off the agent's face. But he eyed the gun in Henricksen's grip and knew he would be no help to Sam dead. "You son of a—"

"Aw, come on, Dean. We all do what we have to do. And now we need to sit here and wait for that brother of yours to show up."

The big brother in Dean flared up, loud and persistent. "And if he doesn't come?"

At this, Henricksen laughed. "I know you don't believe that. What you really need to make sure is that I don't have shoot-to-kill orders."

Dean could not keep himself from paling. It was a momentary thing, a small weakness his well-trained facade quickly masked. "Even if Sam were to come, you have to know he's better trained than to walk right into your trap."

Henricksen shrugged, indifferently. "I've seen your little brother's medical reports, Dean. Little Sammy's not really up to snuff. So why would he break out except on some foolhardy plan to save your sorry ass or keep on with the program? Too bad for him, though, that the drugs and pain and blood loss really screw up one's ability to reason or to perceive threats." He paused, eyeing Dean carefully and inching forward. "I think you know that. I think you know Sam will come—maybe not to kill anyone, but for you. And I think you know that he can be caught. Because I can see the fear in your eyes, Dean." He stepped away, shaking his head. "You should have taken me up on the deal. Never should have blown it. Not that I'm complaining. This works for me far better. I get two Winchesters instead of one."

The frustration and the fear tightened Dean's throat to the point where he wasn't sure he was breathing anymore. "You really have this all wrong," Dean hissed at him. "You've got all the facts right there in front of you, and you're still coming to all the wrong conclusions. You better hope Sam _does_ show up, because he'll be the only one here who has what we need to stop this thing once and for us."

Shaking his head, Henricksen smirked at him. "You and your threats again. The only thing Sammy will be good for is some serious jail time once he shows."

"Like Sam would even be _capable_ of hurting _anyone_," Dean seethed. "You heard the doctor. You _know _what kind of shape he was in."

The agent cocked his head. "Your little brother has also been known to escape from a locked, second-story police building," he said. "You Winchesters seem capable of some of the most impossible feats around. Nothing will stop you from a little good old fashion murder, now, would it? Didn't stop Sammy from breaking his way out of the hospital."

It was a futile argument. Some people just wouldn't believe it--not until they saw it. Sometimes, Dean could respect that. Hell, that's the way Dean lived his life. But his patience for ignorance when it put others at risk was thin. His patience for others who put his _brother _at risk was nonexistent. "You've got a lot to learn," Dean said finally.

A grin spread across Henricksen's face. "So do you."

Only one of them could be right, and it was just a pride thing that made Dean know it'd be him.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Almost done with this one! Hopefully the action here is satisfactory because this is kind of the climax of the this whole thing. Hopefully the boys come through it in one piece... :)

-o-

**Chapter Fourteen**

Sam didn't really have a plan.

Sure, he knew he was going to the warehouse to finish the ritual and to make sure that nothing bad (well, _worse_) happened to Dean. But beyond that, he wasn't really sure what to expect. He knew the FBI would be there and that all he had to arm himself was salt and candles.

He could barely even _see_ straight for that matter and he ended up in the warehouse parking lot without any real memory of how he'd gotten there.

Shaking himself, he tried to remember how long he'd been sitting there. The car was foreign to him and his entire body tingled. The thought hurt too much to process and he let it go. Which was how he started thinking about what he was going to do next.

Hence the realization that he didn't really have a plan. He may have had one at some point (he just couldn't remember that far back), but if he did, it was gone now.

The plan was luckier than he was. It was already out of its probably ill-conceived misery while Sam was left to suffer through whatever came next. He'd go in, plan or no plan, which really, in the end, was all the plan a Winchester had.

If he'd ever doubted whether the years of training and life on the hunt had truly sunk in, he didn't need to anymore. His father might even be proud to see him like this: dedicated, focused, trained. He had no energy, nothing resembling a real strategy, but he was moving, going ahead for the sake of family, just like Dean and Dad had always told him.

It was probably the stupidest thing he'd ever done.

Sighing, he pushed open the door. He staggered a little getting out of the car, and his shoulder protested under the slight strain of his pack.

Blinking wearily, he squinted in the dark at the massive hulk of the warehouse. The lights were off—it was undoubtedly abandoned, probably a trap waiting to snap. Right on him.

Grimly, he took a step forward, sucking in a hard breath to contain the stab of pain. He should have swiped some real painkillers before he broke loose. The Tylenol wasn't cutting it.

It was irrelevant though, and he breathed through it, willing his eyes to focus by sheer willpower. There wasn't anything he wouldn't endure for Dean.

That thought motivating him, he slammed the door shut, and headed in.

-o-

They were so screwed.

Sam was on the run, which was bad enough, and given what little Dean knew about Sam's physical state, the kid probably had more stitches in him than a baseball. Dean was handcuffed to a chair with the only person in sight being a cranky FBI agent. There was a puma spirit running around killing people, and Dean was right in the middle of it.

Worse, Sam was probably a little incoherent, so any idiotic plan his brother hatched would be half-assed at best, and Dean was in no position to even help him.

He knew his brother was good—Sam was the best, just as good as him, maybe even better sometimes, but Sam was alone and he was hurt—his brother couldn't have recovered completely from his wounds from the last time they were here. And no matter how well trained, injury had a way of slowing one down just enough, of making one just a little less stealthy, not to mention muddying one's ability to think clearly.

While Dean more than welcomed Sam's help, he'd have to kick the kid's butt if he got himself arrested. He couldn't even consider the worst case scenario.

Henricksen had taken up station next to him again, ever alert, his hand checking his gun every so often. The glances he gave Dean were eager, now, tinged with anticipation.

Yet he didn't say a word. He was silent, in full-on stakeout mode.

Part of Dean was tempted to make conversation, to at least pass the time, but the looks Henricksen gave him were deadly, and Dean didn't really want to make the man any angrier than he already seemed to be. He didn't so much care what the guy would do to him—but if Sam was going to show up, he didn't really want to put the Fed in a shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of mood.

And Sam _was_ going to show up. That was exactly the kind of stupid thing a Winchester would do. Sam may have been the smart one in the family, but he was as stubbornly loyal as the rest of them.

On the bright side, Dean's entire body was feeling numb—they'd been there for hours already, so maybe the agent's senses were getting a bit dulled as well. Anything to help give Sam an edge would be a good thing in Dean's book.

There, in the shadows—there was the slightest flicker of movement. Dean tensed imperceptibly, eyes trained in the darkness. Then it came again. Someone was moving around the edges of the room, working his way toward the far end of the warehouse. To exactly where the ritual had started the first time.

It was Sam. It had to be Sam. Dean knew it, could practically sense it.

Unfortunately, the agent seemed to sense it as well. He straightened, lifting his coat to show Dean his gun again before putting a finger silently to his lips.

Dean took the hint begrudgingly, scowling as Henricksen moved deeper into the shadow, taking up a station behind Dean.

There was a mixture of relief and disappointment. Sam was there, Sam had come—for him, to finish the job, he wasn't sure which—but his brother was well enough to come up with a plan and execute it and part of Dean couldn't help but be proud of the kid. Because he looked awful—even from a distance, Sam still looked pale and bruised, and Dean could just make out the lumps of bandages beneath his clothes. How Sam was even on his feet seemed to be a monumental feat in and of itself.

Yet for every ounce of pride, Dean felt a ton of fear. Sam was hurt and without backup. His reaction time would be shot to hell, and Dean would be surprised if Sam would even stand up long enough to complete the thing. Worse yet, Sam might not be alert enough to watch for Henricksen _and _the puma, let alone handle both if confronted.

Dean wasn't sure what worried him more: Henricksen's trap or the summoning of the puma. Either way, his injured little brother was walking right into both of them.

He tugged absently at his bonds, hoping to find a slackening, some kind of opening he could exploit. Sitting there in silence went against every brotherly instinct he had.

He didn't have much of a choice. Right behind him, Henricksen waited, silent and calm. Sam stumbled once, throwing out a hand to brace himself, and Henricksen's hand tightened around his gun. Dean tensed, wanting to warn his brother. But the agent's gun was far too accurate, and he couldn't take the chance of Sam bolting and Henricksen opening fire.

Sam steadied himself and paused, not moving beyond the shadows. Even in the dimness, Dean knew what Sam was preparing to do.

He was lighting candles, setting up the herbs. He was finishing the ritual.

He could feel Henricksen's body shift, still rigid with anticipation as he waited for some sign, the ideal moment to move in on his kid brother. Dean wasn't sure what he was waiting for--probably for Sam to do something incriminating, to catch him red-handed and make another easy case for himself.

Sam, for his part, was now surrounded by a soft flickering glow.

Then Dean heard it. The chanting was quiet, nearly inaudible, but it rose gently to his ears, filling the silent warehouse and Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could stop this, wishing he could _do something_. He needed to warn Sam, to help him--get away from Henricksen or the puma or whichever threatened him first.

It was then that Henricksen moved, fast and stealthily, moving beyond Dean, gun pulled and trained. Bursting into the light, Henricksen charged Sam fast and furious. "FBI! Freeze!"

It was like something out of a bad cop flick, and Dean cringed, jerking his arms in earnest now.

Sam, for his part, blinked up, not moving from his perch. His eyes danced around the room, landing heavily on Dean, but his expression didn't waver. For his part, Dean squinted, breathing heavy, and he could see his brother was sweating—badly, which didn't bode well for his physical well-being.

"Don't move," Henricksen ordered, locking his eyes and his gun on Sam.

"Look," Sam said, his voice slow and trying to be steady. His eyes flickered to where Dean was, and there was recognition, but Sam's countenance did not waver. His hands were in front of him, the rite still firmly in his grip. "You have to let me finish this."

"I don't have to let you do anything," Henricksen said. "You broke out of the hospital last night."

Sam swallowed convulsively and Dean could see his brother twitch nervously. "I had to come finish this."

"You mean killing the girl last night?"

There was no sign of shock on his brother's face, and Dean knew his brother had done his research. Some things never changed, not even due to blood loss.

"I didn't kill her, but I'm going to stop what did," Sam said evenly, but his voice cracked a little.

"Put it down," Henricksen ordered.

Sam's fingers were gripping the paper so tightly that Dean could see his knuckles turning white even through the dimness.

Sam tilted his head, his eyes looking almost apologetic, as he sunk back into a shadow and the reading started again.

"I told you to drop it!" Henricksen yelled this time, and Dean flinched at the intensity of his voice.

He was sure of a couple of things. First, Sam wasn't going to back down. Not now. Not when they were so close. Not when it was already started, and all their lives were at stake. Second, he knew that Henricksen wasn't messing around. The man wasn't exactly trigger happy, but he was damned determined, and his patience had been pushed to the brink.

If something didn't intervene between the two of them, Sam would be dead, and that simply wasn't an option.

Frantic, Dean began pulling at his restraints again in earnest. He needed to do something—anything. Henricksen was yelling, getting closer to Sam, and his brother's voice was hitching with exhaustion, but not slowing.

Dean was so focused at tugging on the handcuffs that he barely felt the breeze. He was so intent on the conversation between his brother and Henricksen that he barely heard the growing whispers.

The soft flutter was just enough though, and he jerked his head up.

Just how far had Sam gotten?

Something flickered to his left and he turned his head. Apparently far enough.

The spirits were lurking, loitering, moving closer.

Dean looked again toward his brother, still holding the ritual, still pleading with Henricksen. The agent's aim had not wavered.

Cursing, Dean pulled again—hard, jarring the chair.

The breeze picked up.

"It's starting," he heard Sam say. "Can't you see it's starting?"

Sam sounded a bit hysterical, which wouldn't help his cause any, but Dean understood. Sam was trying to do the right thing, and Henricksen seemed to be hell-bent on getting them all killed.

"What's starting?" Henricksen shot back.

Looking to the side again, the spirits were closer, firmer, and the sound was growing. A lid whipped off the top of a box sending paper flying.

This was bad, this was very bad. The puma was coming—soon—and Henricksen still didn't get it. They needed to move—now.

Dean may have been tied to a chair, but that didn't mean he was useless. With the puma coming, one of them needed to finish the ritual. Sam had the paper; Sam needed to do it. But Henricksen was going to plug him full of holes if things kept going south, which wasn't ideal on any level. One, no one was ever going to shoot his little brother if he could help it, and, two, shooting Sam would be a death sentence for all of them.

So Dean had to get the gun trained on himself.

What tools did have? His oh-so-charming personality.

He thumped loudly, pulling the cuffs against the chair purposefully to maximize the sound. "Hey, Victor, old buddy, old pal," he said. "You mind loosening these a bit? It's making my not-so-stealthy escape a little difficult."

As predicted, Henricksen's eyes flashed to him, and Dean met them with his own. The confusion and uncertainty on Henricksen's face was foreign, out of place. The agent had always seemed so in control, but Dean knew this situation was rapidly slipping into unknown territory for the man. Had Henricksen not been so vindictive in his pursuit, Dean might have felt sorry for him.

"Seriously, man," Dean said. "I'd like to be up and about before things really start flying. If it makes you feel any better, I won't try to escape until _after_ we save your ass."

As if on cue, a box tipped over, sending papers swirling in the air. The whispers grew in intensity.

Henricksen's eyes went wide as he looked up at the papers, then wider still as he squinted toward the approaching spirits. Tentative, he moved forward. "What the hell are you two trying to pull?"

"I told you," Dean snapped. "We're not pulling anything. Now let me go so we can get this done."

Over the agent's shoulder, Dean could make out his brother's slouched form, holding the paper, his lips moving now. His kid brother was reading, rapid and soft in the growing din.

The older man hesitated, his eyes flickering between Dean and Sam. Suddenly, Henricksen's aim jerked back toward Sam. The agent was flustered, clearly not comfortable with this turn of events. "Put it down, now," Henricksen ordered. "And call off your special effects before I start firing."

The threat was real, and Dean knew it, but Sam didn't listen, or couldn't hear.

The shelves trembled, spilling contents, and Dean narrowly avoided being squashed by a box of Xerox paper.

Henricksen flinched, ducking a flying box lid, but his gun remained steady, still taut in his hand, still focused.

There was a distant roar, and Dean knew things were about to get a whole lot worse.

-o-

Sam was numb--from fear or pain or desperation, he wasn't sure, but it was making things difficult. Words tumbled from Sam's lips, fast and garbled, but close enough. He was better with Latin—so much better with Latin--and the ancient Native American dialect was too much like speaking Chinese or Indian, or something else foreign to the American tongue.

He could feel the room vibrating; the spirits were getting close, closer by the minute.

Distantly, he heard Dean talking, heard Henricksen talking. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the gun, primed and trained on him.

He didn't care.

The man would just have to shoot him to make him stop. He'd already been here once. He'd already stopped once, and people had died because of it. This time he wasn't going to stop at anything—not when his brother's life depended on it. He could only hope that Henricksen's sense of logic was stronger than his inherent sense of archaic and oversimplified duty.

Sam was in the zone, and he knew it. The world was fading around him, even as he knew the ritual picked up and was building to a breaking point. Normally he'd be more diplomatic; normally he'd be more afraid. This time, he simply didn't have the time or the energy.

It was everything he could do to just keep reading, and that was that.

Whatever threat Henricksen posed, whatever threat was posed to Henricksen—he was counting on Dean to take care of that much.

There was a gunshot and a screech, a thump and a growl, but Sam didn't let himself react, didn't let himself do anything except keep on reading.

-o-

Henricksen saw the puma before Dean did.

The agent's face went slack, his jaw open, his eyes wide as he stared at _something_ behind Dean.

Dean cringed, but swiveled his head to look, even though he knew what that something was. Turned, the older brother found himself nearly face to face with the beast. He barely had time to curse before the thing swiped at him, hard and long across his back.

It hit mostly chair, though, and he went tumbling, the metal torn by the vicious claws. He didn't want to think about how strong the thing had to be to cut metal with a single slice, but it didn't matter. Not right then anyway.

Remarkably, though it had cleaved the chair, he was still intact. To add to his good fortune, his cuffs were broken, severed in two.

He was free.

Rolling, he pushed himself up on his numb hands, looking up in time to see the puma advancing on Henricksen.

The agent fired once, a desperate shot as the thing lunged in the air. The puma bounced off a wall before trying to pounce on him, easily dodging the bullet. Henricksen yelped, sliding out the way, the claws catching his arm. It was a glancing blow, but enough to jar the gun loose, and send him tumbling.

A weakness the puma would exploit.

It would be just in a sense; Dean _had_ told him so, and it would guarantee him a tried and true escape route.

But he glanced at Sam, who was listing heavily, reading still, and knew what he had to do.

Surging ahead, he flailed his hands out, yelling, "Hey! Cat boy! Over here!"

The puma turned mid-strike, bounding off a stack of boxes back toward Dean, leaving the trembling agent where he'd fallen. Swallowing reflexively, Dean realized he probably should have thought this plan through a little better before he'd started it.

A growl escaped the puma's lips as he charged him. For a moment, Dean was frozen, understanding the panicked feeling of a deer in the headlights. This thing was stronger than he was; it might even be as smart. It was ferocious as hell and its appetite was only slightly less voracious than its sense of territory.

Dean, for his part, was unarmed. Completely. Not that Sam would look kindly on killing it anyway—killing the puma equated to killing Michael. Though the kid's misguided quest had gotten them all in this mess, he was still a kid, and they still wanted to save him.

Not at the expense of their own lives though.

As the puma neared enough to take a swipe, Dean dove out the way, rolling expertly to the side. The puma, surprised, couldn't stop its momentum and plowed ahead. It was just a momentary pause, but it was enough for Dean to regroup.

On instinct, Dean looked for a weapon—something, anything. He came up with nothing, and he barely found his feet before the puma pounced again.

It was closer this time, close enough to feel the puma's rancid breath hot on his skin. He had lost track of Henricksen; he'd even lost track of Sam, which was something that never made him comfortable. He turned, hoping to gauge the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother.

Sam was still reading—he had to still be reading. He didn't know what the hell Henricksen was doing, if the agent had even gotten his crap together enough to be of any use. Maybe the man was even smart enough to retrieve his gun—though Dean didn't _want_ him to kill Michael, he would certainly appreciate the backup.

The turn, however, cost him precious seconds. Instinctively, he moved to twist away again, but this time he was too slow. The puma rammed into him, catching him fully in the torso. There was no scrape of claws, just hard, solid contact before he was airborne. He felt his body hit the wall with a force that surprised him, and the world blinked out.

-o-

It was the sound of his brother's cry that finally made him stop.

The cry was pained and truncated, and that couldn't be good.

He looked up in time to see Dean hit hard against a wall, crashing to the floor before sprawling, limp.

Logically, he needed to finish the ritual; that was the best way to save Dean. The only way to really be sure. But the puma was stalking his brother, moving toward him, and Sam couldn't just stand there.

He yelled, his voice strained with desperation, nearly tripping as he tried to move on legs that were too weak to run.

The puma was strutting, proud and overconfident, because it had never failed to get its quarry before. That was a trend Sam wanted to end. Needed to end.

His legs moved, but not fast enough, and he fell to all fours, the ritual still tightly clasped within his clammy hands.

A gunshot tore into his hearing and he looked up, squinting and saw Henricksen with his gun trembling in his grasp.

The beast snarled and turned on him, a murderous rage in its eyes. Sam could see then that the shot hadn't missed entirely—the bullet had winged it—or rather winged Michael because blood seeped from an all too real wound on its arm.

It wasn't enough, though. Not to stop it. The bullet wound might have downed Michael were the boy himself; but it only made the puma mad.

Part of Sam was relieved—the gunshot had effectively taken the puma's attention off his brother, which had been Sam's intent since the beginning. The other part of Sam realized that this turn of events didn't bode well for the well-intentioned FBI agent.

It was hard to see—he wasn't sure when his vision had gotten so shoddy, but the darkness of the room only enhanced his inability to clearly make out objects and people. But he didn't need to see the details to know what was happening.

Despite the shot Henricksen had gotten off, the agent was frozen in place now, too shocked to make a move as the puma charge toward him. The attack was swift, starting with a glancing swipe that cuffed the man's arm.

His lips numb, Sam mumbled the ritual, knowing he needed to finish, but knowing he needed to save the agent first. If Henricksen died, so did all their chances of a clear future. They might escape, but the death of an FBI agent would never go unnoticed. The search for them would be stepped up tenfold, and Sam was pretty sure there'd be no more deals, no more leniency.

The puma was circling, but Henricksen was moving now, holding his arm with his good hand and stumbling away. Sam couldn't see the gun anymore—the man must have lost it in the scuffle.

Gathering his energy, Sam kept the paper in front of him, chanting louder, harder as he began to move.

His steps were unsteady but purposeful, and Sam could feel his heart swelling in his chest. This was it—his only chance. The timing would be crucial. Any failure would prove deadly for all of them.

Louder and faster, Sam broke into a job and screamed the recitation.

Suddenly the puma flickered, once—just briefly. But enough.

Sam's hope grew and he was close enough to see the puma look up and pin him in its gaze. The utter rage in its eyes was hampered by a growing realization of what Sam was trying to do.

Raising its lip, the puma revealed a feral snarl. Abandoning Henricksen, it locked its sites on a new prey, a more dangerous prey. Sam was out to destroy it, and it was pretty clear that the puma wasn't about to just let that happen.

Focused again, Sam sped up, his words flying, and he was so intent that he didn't see the puma until it plowed into him, knocking him clean off his feet and sent him skidding across the ground.

The hit was nearly devastating, and the impact blinded him with an eclipsing pain that took his breath and his awareness for one suspended moment. But he didn't waver—he couldn't waver. He couldn't see anything but the paper in front of him. He couldn't feel the weight of the puma as it held him down. Sam didn't spare it a glance or a thought, not even as the growl it emitted shook his body to the core.

The hot breath was on his face and he could feel its pulse throb with an eerie realness.

It was ready to kill him, and this time it would have no one to stop it. Dean was out for the count, and he didn't know where Henricksen was or what the man was doing. It was just Sam and the puma, and Sam was injured, hurt, and the puma had the strength of the supernatural on its side.

But Sam knew something it didn't.

Sam only had one line left.

As the jaws leaned down, open and large, he spat the words, hard and determined.

Breathless, he looked up, and he saw the visage above him fade in and out, the surprise evident on both the human and the cat. Startled, the entity fell back, tripping off of Sam to the side. One paw-like hand went to its chest in a way so very human.

It flickered again, slower this time, and when Sam blinked, he saw that the puma was gone.

It was just a boy, one Sam had seen in pictures and had heard about from his family. A boy with a mangy head of hair and a bloody arm. His eyes were wide and he was breathing heavily before his eyes rolled up in his head and he went limp, falling to the floor without so much as a sound.

Sam blinked again, and the world seemed hazier than before. He realized he was sprawled on the floor. Flicking his eyes to the side, he saw the still form of his brother. He didn't even think about it.

The effort was draining, but he barely even felt it as he dragged himself to his knees and crawled to his brother's side. On his knees next to his brother, he reached down to take a pulse, but his fingers were shaking so badly that he couldn't press firmly onto Dean's neck. Tears welled in his eyes as panic set in. The irrationality of it did not escape Sam, but he wasn't sure he cared. He'd just risked everything—to save _Dean_, and he couldn't even get his crap together long enough to see if his brother was alive.

Through his fading vision, he realized he could see the rise and fall of Dean's chest, and that would have to be enough. With an exhaustion suddenly too pervasive to ignore, Sam collapsed onto his brother, who did not so much as grunt with the contact. He should be worried about that, but with his head on Dean's chest, he could make out the sound of his brother's heart over the roaring of pain in his head.

Sam was panting, his head swimming, but he managed to roll himself over to get a better view of the damage to the warehouse. His entire body felt numb and weary and he didn't even have the strength to move. The written ritual lay just beyond his grasp and the candles were smoldering stumps. Papers still floated to the ground, and Sam could feel Dean's chest rising and falling steadily beneath him.

He figured he should get up, shouldn't probably be hindering his brother's breathing, but the sign of his brother's life was so encouraging. Besides, he really didn't think he had the ability to move anymore.

He strained his eyes in the darkness, trying to see. Michael's form was still unmoving where he had fallen and Sam couldn't see if he was breathing or not. He had no idea what the after effects of the vision quest would be, what injuries he had sustained from being merged with the puma for so long.

But it was over. It was finally over. For better or for worse, it was over.

Then he saw Henricksen rising shakily to his feet. Sam had almost forgotten about him. The agent was bleeding, a trail of blood trickling down the side of his face, and he was holding his gun.

Sam had a momentary thought to flee, to try to grab Dean and run, but the thought died before it really took hold. He made it to a sitting position somehow, but there was nowhere to go, not that he could get there if he wanted to.

Defeated, he slumped back against Dean as Henricksen limped over to him.

"Check Michael," he said.

Henricksen looked confused. "Who?"

"Michael," Sam said again, hoping the agent would figure it out.

Henricksen cast a glance at the fallen figure. "It's a kid." The simple statement hung heavy with shock and disbelief.

"Yeah," Sam said between gasps. "His name's Michael."

"But...what I saw...," Henricksen stammered, his mouth hanging open.

"The puma."

"But it's a kid."

Sam just shook his head, trying to find the energy to explain. "He was...possessed...," Sam tried. "Merged with a spirit."

Henricksen shook his head. "How is that possible?"

Sam actually wanted to laugh at that. "Would you believe me...if I told you?" he rasped.

Henricksen just stared, blankly.

A cough ripped through Sam and when he was done, he sagged to the floor, deflating. "If you're still going to handcuff us," Sam continued between gasps. "You can do it now."

Before Henricksen could reply, Sam's vision dimmed completely, and he went limp on his brother's chest.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: And this is it. I feel like this resolved rather fast, probably too much so, but endings are never easy, especially in a fic this long. Hopefully it isn't too disappointing. Any similarities to Jus in Bello are in fact coincidental. I had all of the Henricksen stuff done far before that. Thanks to my betas, Tyranusfan and Rachelly, for all their work. And thanks to sendintheclowns who honestly is the best person ever when it comes to supporting my writing. She's invested as much time in this fic as I have, I'm pretty sure. And lastly thanks to all who have read and reviewed :) If anyone enjoyed this, then it's been worth it.

-o-

**Chapter Fifteen**

The first thing he felt was discomfort.

The bed wasn't very comfortable, and the room was cold. Not to mention there was something wrong with his arm, something on it—something itchy.

The second thing he felt was pain.

A single spike jolted through his body, followed quickly by another. Whatever he'd done, he was bruised to hell because of it, and the tightness of his skin suggested he'd probably had some decorative sewing tried out on the canvas of his skin.

The third thing he felt was panic.

Memory came on the heels of pain. Henricksen, the warehouse, the puma. Sam.

With a gasp he came awake, his eyes jerking open only to squint shut again in the garish light. "Sam," Dean demanded, his voice laden with an undeniable fear. He strained his head, trying desperately to look around, to figure out what had happened, where Sam was.

His heart fell when he saw Henricksen camped out in the chair by his bed, watching him expectantly. Not only was he in a hospital, but his tangle with the FBI clearly wasn't resolved yet, much to his chagrin.

Dean gritted his teeth and rolled his head back to look at the ceiling. "Where's Sam?"

Henricksen remained impassive, arching his eyebrows with mild indifference. "He saved your life, you know."

"Yours too," Dean said. He looked at the agent again, trying to hide his fear. "Where is he?"

"He also saved the kid. Michael," Henricksen said. "Told me about Michael's vision quest. Explained everything."

Dean snorted despite himself, and regretted it when the action sent a jolt of pain through his chest. "And you believed him?"

Henricksen shrugged, seeming almost too weary to be offended. "I believe the evidence," Henricksen said. "I believe in what I can see, what I can prove. I've spent my entire life defending what was right. And I was so sure with you. I was just so sure..."

"You were wrong," Dean concluded, stating the obvious. The change of heart from the fed was a relief, but too surprising to really make him feel safe quite yet. The fact that he hadn't seen Sam yet didn't help matters, but he had a feeling this 180 was probably due to the sincerity of his little brother's soul. "What made you change your mind?"

"The things I saw...that boy, the puma. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."

"I know the feeling," Dean said, a tinge of sympathy in his voice even outweighing the overwhelming urge to say _I told you so_. He didn't need a lawyer to tell him that wouldn't be his brightest move.

Henricksen smiled slightly. "Sam saved my life."

Dean felt his heart skip a beat. "Where is he?"

"After all I did to you, he saved me." The disbelief in his voice was evident.

"He's okay, right?" He was all for Henricksen's remorse and thankfulness, but he'd revel in that as soon as he knew his brother was okay.

"Yeah," Henricksen said, almost surprised that Dean was still asking. "He's going to be fine. He's not awake yet, but they don't think he's going to have any complications. You either. They already released Michael."

Dean felt himself relax. "Can I see him? Can I see Sam?"

Henricksen shook himself, seeming to come to life. He stood, tugging on the curtain dividing the room. "I told you, he's fine. He's just sleeping it off."

There, on the other bed, Sam lay in a standard issue hospital gown, His hair was greasy and shoved to the side and his head was turned slightly toward his brother in sleep. A pair of IVs strung from his hand and monitors flashed silently beside him.

Alive. Dean could even see the even rise and fall of Sam's chest, bulky with bandages under the hospital gown.

"The doctor said he had to redo some of the stitches that Sam managed to pull out—I imagine your younger brother is going to get quite the talking to from Dr. Leland about how to take care of himself."

Dean was only half listening, too focused on the certainty of his brother's safety. "And the shrink?"

"There's no need to push Sam to talk anymore," Henricksen said quietly.

They'd come so close—and seeing Sam laid up in the hospital was hardly the kind of thing to assuage his nerves. But Sam was there, so close to him, so alive. Dean could take comfort in that much. It was what he'd wanted in the first place.

"So," Dean said, letting his eyes flicker to the agent again. "What now?"

Henricksen laughed a little, but it sounded different this time. It was true, untainted. "The circumstantial evidence against you is monumental," he said slowly. "Your DNA is all over crime scenes across the country. Making a case against you, nailing you to the wall—it'd be so easy."

Dean waited, his heart tight in his chest. "And?"

"And I can't do it," he said simply. He shook his head. "I just can't do it."

Confused, Dean tilted his head, waiting for the punch line. "What do you mean?"

Leaning forward, Henricksen put his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense on Dean. "I know what I saw. I don't know quite how to explain it, but nothing has been closer to the truth than everything you and your brother told me. What I saw wasn't human, and it certainly wasn't you two."

Dean's heart fluttered. "So what are you trying to say?"

The agent sighed. "All charges against you have been dropped. We're letting you go."

"Just like that?"

"Well, just about," the older man said, sitting back in his seat. "I've had a hell of a time explaining to my superiors how I spent nearly a year chasing you just to let you go. And he wouldn't have let it go just on my account."

"Then why did he let it go?"

The agent reached to the bedside table and picked up a file. "These are the accounts of eyewitnesses across the country. You've been out of it for awhile, and I've been busy. It was stuff I'd seen before, but this time I actually looked at it. Listened to the people."

Dean winced subconsciously. For as many people as they helped, he was certain there were more than a few peculiarities people picked up on regarding him and his brother. "That must have been interesting."

Henricksen looked up from the file and met Dean's eyes. "I still don't get you Winchesters. You go around saving people, risking your lives, living like fugitives and outlaws. I don't even want to know half of what you do to keep yourselves afloat--which, by the way, you really better stop if you want to be walking around like free men again."

Dean smiled half-heartedly. "We'll take that into consideration."

But Henricksen wasn't really listening to him. He was studying him, watching every thing Dean did, as if he were trying to figure something out. "It doesn't seem like I should trust you," he said. "I mean, this kind of stuff really happens all the time?"

"More than you think," Dean muttered tiredly.

"And that's just what you do?" Henricksen said, the disbelief in his voice evident. He laughed and shook his head. "The thing I've been trying to figure out is why. One second, you're this nice little family in Lawrence. The next, your mom's gone and you don't have anything resembling a stable life for the next twenty-two years. Being a hero is one thing. But the way you live isn't just heroic. It's--it doesn't make any sense."

"It's just what we do," Dean said. He glanced over at Sam. "Sometimes it seems like there's nothing else we can do."

Henricksen shook his head. "I don't get it, man."

Looking back at the agent, Dean sighed. "Once you've seen the darkness, once you've really _seen_ it, once you get how it works, how it comes after people--that changes things. It makes it impossible to walk away. And sometimes that means you're stuck fighting a fight because there's no one else to do it, because sometimes the darkness is after you."

Leaning back in his chair, Henricksen tossed the file back onto the bedside table. "You know, I became a cop because my sister was murdered when I was thirteen. I thought I'd never be the same, and from that day on, I couldn't look at the world the same way. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't do anything except think about how there were people out there, bad people, who would hurt people's sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers. So I spent the rest of my life trying to find them, bring them to justice. I can't say I always like it, because I see the worst in people. But I don't really have a choice. It's almost like my destiny."

At that, Dean closed his eyes and let the concept wash over him. Destiny, fate, things that are meant to be. He was trying so hard not to believe in that, not to let it control him, to let it own him or his brother. Because if he was honest with himself, destiny scared him more than anything--more than Sam walking out, more than his father dying, more than all the demons in hell. Because destiny was something he couldn't fight, something he couldn't control, and Dean simply didn't know how to deal with that.

The fact that Sam seemed all too ready to accept it didn't make it easier. There was no future Dean wanted where Sam wasn't in the picture.

But, in the end, all his denial, all his protestations, really missed the point. Destiny wasn't always something that chose him, it was something that he had chosen all along. He could never convince Sam that he wasn't meant for something terrible, because the evidence wasn't looking very good on that front at the moment, not with the demon's promises and psychic kids killing and dying across the country. He just had to convince Sam that he could stand up against it, no matter what. Things might be meant to be, but that didn't mean he had no control over them. Maybe that's what Sam wanted him to understand. Maybe that's the battle Sam had been fighting all along. He'd just been too scared to see it.

He opened his eyes, resolved, weary. "And this is my destiny," Dean said finally. He nodded toward his brother. "Taking care of Sammy, fighting the evil in the world. That's what I do. It's what I'll always do."

There was something like understanding in the agent's eyes as he nodded. "I guess I'd have to say that maybe we're not so different after all," he said. Then he pushed himself up to stand. "The official word on your exoneration will be down sometime today. Just steer clear of the really illegal stuff, and I can say that I hope we never meet again."

Dean couldn't help but smile, and he nodded his assent. "Thanks."

"Thank you," he replied. "Tell your brother the same."

Watching him go, Dean wondered if it was too good to be true. Full pardons, no more warrants, no more living on the run. They could get back to their typical transient lifestyle and stow the fear of the law to the backseat where it belonged.

Feeling tired, he let his head drop back against the pillow, rolling it over to look at his brother. Sam looked no different, still pale and unmoving on the bed next to him. Sam would be happy about being free from the law--it was stress that his little brother didn't need. But somehow he knew that Sam wouldn't breathe easy--not yet. Not until he understood just what it was the demon wanted, and just what Sam could become.

Maybe Sam didn't really want protection. Maybe Sam just wanted someone to believe in him. Someone to help him believe in himself.

Well, if that were the case, Dean figured he could probably oblige. It was his destiny, after all.

-o-

Sam was pretty tired of waking up in places he didn't recognize. Not that any of the motels they stayed in were home, but he usually was able to wake up with a sense of stability, with a sense of place.

Lately, all of that had been out the window. His sleep had been disjointed and jarring and uncontrolled--and often it involved waking up in pain, in strange places, wondering what the hell had just happened.

He had to admit, this time there wasn't pain and he felt a little better than he had in what seemed like days, but he still didn't know where he was. As for what had just happened--well, that was still hazy, too. There was something about Dean and the FBI and the puma--

Sam came fully awake with a start.

He'd gone to the warehouse to stop Michael, which was the first step in clearing Dean's name. But Dean had been in the warehouse--Dean and Henricksen. And the puma--it had attacked.

"You're alive, if that's what you're wondering."

Startled, Sam looked over, thoroughly surprised to see his older brother reclining on the other bed in the room. "Dean," he said, and he wanted to say more, but the words were catching in his throat, tight with the questions he couldn't quite phrase.

Dean was looking at him, his face set in annoyance, but Sam could see the relief. "Not that you really helped keep it that way."

"Are you--are you okay?" Sam finally managed to ask, his eyes sweeping over his brother's body. His brother looked a little banged up around the face--some cuts and bruises--but he seemed free from major medical intrusion.

Dean just rolled his eyes. "I'm not the one who's been taking a prolonged nap," he said, clearly exasperated. "And I'm also not the one who broke out of the hospital. You were still recovering from massive blood loss, Sam. You weren't really supposed to be wandering around the city looking for Michael."

Sam's brow furrowed. He remembered the panic, the sense of isolation. The fear. "I didn't know what else to do."

"It was stupid, Sam," he said, unmoved by Sam's vulnerability. "You should have stayed put."

"They wanted to _commit_ me," Sam explained plaintively. "And if I was locked up in a psych ward, then I'd never be able to figure out a way to help you."

"I didn't need help," Dean replied indignantly.

That was a whopper of a lie, even for Dean. Sam leveled his brother with a stare. "Yeah, so your plan was just to get locked up in prison for the rest of your life—or worse, get a death sentence."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, jutting out his chin in resistance. "I would have figured something out."

Scoffing, Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure," he said. "And you say I'm the stupid one."

Narrowing his eyes, Dean scowled. "You could have gotten yourself killed."

"It would have been worth it if it meant saving you."

Dean's sigh was heavy. "Why do you think I made the deal with the feds in the first place? To take care of you."

"So I was returning the favor," Sam replied simply, flopping himself back against his bed. His body was aching—another dose of pain reliever might do him good. "What's so wrong with that?"

"Because I'm the big brother--"

Sam threw his head back in exasperation. "You do _not _get to pull that line with me."

"And why not? Who's been looking out for you since before you could even talk? Come on, Sam, I changed your _diapers_. This is my _job_."

Eyes narrowed, Sam just shook his head and looked at his brother. "If you haven't noticed, Dean, I'm not in diapers anymore. Somewhere along the line, I grew up. We do this together. I watch your back, you watch mine. That's the way it works, and I'm tired of feeling like I have no control over any of this."

"Sam, it's not--"

"Not like that?" Sam asked, incredulous. "Then what the hell is it like? The way I see it, everything in my life is outside of my control. There's this demon who's after me, who killed Mom, who killed Jess, who killed Dad, and it seems to be able to do whatever it wants with us. There are all these signs telling us that there's something _wrong_ with me, something maybe _evil_ about me, and I don't know how to stop it. I can't do enough good things to make it better, and then my older brother sits around and tells me to just not worry about it, he's got it under control. Well, great. I'm so glad that everyone else is in control of my life, so I guess I'll just sit back and wait to see who comes out on top--you or the Demon."

The speech was too much, too long with too much emotion, and it left Sam gasping and drained. He sank back against his bed, feeling his heart about to pound out of his chest. The room was hazy around the edges, and he could hear Dean swearing over the resounding beeps of the heart monitor.

Then there were gentle hands on his arm, steady and reassuring. "You don't have to kill yourself just to prove to me that you can, okay?"

Sam blinked, clearing his vision, then looked up at his brother through his hair. "I just want you to understand."

"And I just want you to understand," Dean said back, his face set. "No matter what you tell me, I'm always going to put you first. I'm always going to sacrifice anything I can for you. I don't know how to do anything else. And don't expect any _thank you_s for nearly getting yourself killed. It doesn't work that way, even if I get why you do it."

His brother was frustrating and difficult. Reasoning with Dean was about as easy as reasoning with a rock. Dean was oblivious and hypocritical.

But Dean loved him.

He only hoped he could love Dean back like he deserved, that Dean's love wouldn't get him tangled up in the darkness that was Sam's and Sam's alone.

Sam sighed. "Yeah," he said finally, his heart rate had eased and the world was coming back in to sharp focus. "I get why you do it, too."

Dean looked at him, confused and perturbed, before crossing his arms and resting back with a huff. "Next time I'm so not making a deal for you," he muttered. "Ungrateful bitch."

"Yeah," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "I love you, too, jerk."

-o-

After all the excitement--the puma attack, being arrested, saving Henricksen, being cleared of all charges--laying around in a hospital waiting to get better was pretty much a let down. There was suddenly no overriding tension, no sense of danger lurking for them, no need to even hurry. Insurance fraud would have been pretty futile at this point, and it was irrelevant anyway, since, in a massive attempt to cover itself, the warehouse had offered to pay all medical fees.

More or less, there was nothing to worry about, nothing to plot against. Even Sam was improving rapidly. Not that any of these things were _bad_. On the contrary, life was going about as well as it could for a Winchester. But the unfortunate side effect was that Dean felt rather impotent and pointless and utterly frustrated about being cooped up in the hospital.

Sam's mood was pretty neutral during the recovery, alternating between extreme relief about being reunited and set free and the depression that had been chasing Sam insistently since the demon had made it clear that all the death, all the mayhem in their lives was all tied to Sam and whatever plans the demon may have had. Sam never said as much, but he didn't have to.

Still, that wasn't a conversation Dean wanted to have--not yet, and especially not here where good intentioned nurses and doctors were loitering. Despite their sudden freedom, Dean was still skeptical and hesitant to reveal too much, as though Henricksen could charge back through those doors at any moment to slap on the cuffs and take them away.

Needless to say, Dean was more than a little relieved when the doctor had both of their walking papers drafted. Dean had stayed a little longer than necessary perhaps, and Sam was leaving a few days early--his wounds were still ugly looking and needed daily tending and his shoulder was still undergoing bouts of routine therapy to make sure the muscles healed properly. That was all old hat to them, things that they could easily handle on the road, and Dean could tell that Sam was just as anxious to leave as he was.

Leaving was a quiet affair. They'd had no visitors, and their nurses checked them out with empty smiles. Collecting their bag of meager and bloodied possessions, Dean took a breath, gave his brother a ready look and pushed open the door.

The sunlight outside was bright and the day was warm and Dean didn't know when he'd seen a better day. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled contentedly, smiling at his brother. "Feels good to be free."

Sam quirked an eyebrow at him. "In more ways than one," he agreed. He looked out at the parking lot in front of the hospital. "What about the car?"

"Henricksen said it would be parked in the front lot for us. I think they even put back most of the weapons, except the ones we need a license for."

"Dad would be pissed if he knew we let the guns get confiscated."

"Dad would be glad as hell we aren't locked up in jail," Dean countered.

Sam smiled. "True enough."

They took another step out into the daylight when someone approached them. At first, Dean figured the kid was just entering the hospital, but he slowed down, hesitantly, and looked up curiously. "You Dean and Sam Winchester?" he asked.

Exchanging a glance with Sam, Dean kept his face neutral. "Why does it matter?"

The kid twitched, smiling slightly, and Dean realized he looked vaguely familiar. The kid was shorter than he was, skinny and mostly unkempt. His clothes hung loosely off his body and he seemed incapable of looking at Dean straight in the eyes. "I just wanted--I just wanted to say thanks," the kid said finally, shuffling a little.

Dean cocked his head, and he saw Sam's stance slacken next to him.

"Thanks for what?" Sam asked.

"You might not recognize me," the kid explained. "My name is Michael. Michael Whitefoot. We haven't met--not really, anyway."

The pieces fell into place. Henricksen had said Michael was in the same hospital, that he was going to be fine. Now, clearly, the kid was having some kind of crisis of conscious, and Dean supposed he could understand why. Being a part of mass murder probably did that to most well-intentioned people.

And the kid did look well-intentioned. Younger than Sam, and scared. Hardly the type anyone would suspect to do harm--the field mouse, not the puma. Dean felt a pang of pity. This Michael, this timid, nervous kid, was the thing Michael had tried to escape; now, it was all that was left of him.

The kid had been stupid, naive, but never evil. He'd been part of the puma, but it'd never been his fault. The recrimination in the kid's eyes--Dean had seen that look in Sam after his possession. He feared that if Sam didn't lose this trail of destiny soon, this would be all that was left of Sam as well. A timid, guilt-ridden victim.

"You guys...saved my life," Michael said finally, shoving his hands farther into his pockets. He looked up at them, almost scared. "You saved my life. After everything I'd done, you saved me."

Sam was painfully silent. Dean swallowed hard and looked at the kid again. Michael's shoulders were stooped, his hair clearly overgrown and in his eyes. And there was a desperation in his face that Dean recognized too well. "It wasn't you," Dean said, his voice steadier and stronger than he felt. It was hard to say, harder still to believe, but this wasn't just about Michael.

Michael's face twisted in pain, his eyes large and wet. "Not totally, but some of it was. I was the one who wanted to go on the vision quest. I was the one who wanted to make myself better, who wanted to try to change my destiny. And I changed it all right. I changed it and became a killer."

"You can't blame yourself for what the puma did."

"Yeah, but I can blame myself for letting it happen."

"It doesn't work that way," Dean insisted softly.

"My best friend is dead," Michael shot back. "I killed my best friend. I ruined people's lives. I don't...I don't deserve..." Michael's voice broke off, and he looked away, tears sneaking out the corners of his eyes.

Sam couldn't look up from the ground. Dean found himself alone in his argument. "Sometimes no matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, things just work against us. That's _not_ your fault. It never will be," Dean said. "You just have to make your peace with that."

Michael took a shaky breath and exhaled a laugh. He looked up, his eyes bright, his chin trembling. "I don't know how to do that."

Dean pursed his lips. "You go on. You go home. Go back to your sisters and your house and just start again."

"How can I go on living knowing that other people won't?"

Dean felt a twinge of regret, a twinge of remembrance. He knew loss, knew it all too well. Both he and Sam had lost enough people for one lifetime. "You just do. You think about what you have and they don't and just live and hope to be worthy of it. It's all any of us can do."

Michael ran a hand through his hair. "I..I wasn't sure if I should thank you or not. I mean, I don't even know what to do with myself. Sometimes I don't even want the second chance. It's like sometimes I think I'm beyond redemption."

"If you believe that, then you already are."

Michael looked at him a moment, cocked his head in question, then managed a small smile. He swallowed, nodded to himself. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."

"Take care of yourself, Michael," Dean said.

Nodding again, Michael's smile faded. With one last look, he turned away, walking off toward the parking lot.

Dean watched him go, shoulders slouched, posture defeated. He had no way of knowing of Michael would make it, if Michael would get past this. Dean wasn't sure he could if the positions were reversed, if he could go on after a thing like that, if he could go on after losing someone like Sam. He'd survived his dad's death, but barely, and right now he was too caught up in keeping Sam afloat to even think about how he was doing. Seeing someone so stripped of everything--of pride, of dreams, of hope--it was a scary thing.

He cast a sideways glance at Sam. His younger brother was also watching Michael disappear into the cars, his face wistful, full of doubt. Sam was about two-steps away from Michael, it seemed. All Sam wanted was to do the right thing, to change his destiny, and Dean worried what Sam would sacrifice to make that happen. A few wrong choices, some circumstances beyond Sam's control, and Sam could be just like Michael--or worse.

Dean couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. Those two steps were very important steps, and Dean would do everything in his power to keep Sam from falling into that kind of hole--emotionally or physically.

"I wish it were that simple," Sam said suddenly.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he stared into the sunlight. "It _is _that simple," he countered, determined now. "If you let it be."

Looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother sigh. His shoulders sagged and his face looked weary. "There's something out there," he said. "Something out there for me. The visions, the demon—the way everyone around me dies—it means something."

"It means nothing," Dean insisted shortly. "Just that life sucks sometimes."

It was a bit cruel to say, because he could see the need for acceptance, for understanding on his brother's face. But this was the one point he could never concede, the one thing he could never negotiate. It wasn't just to protect Sam, no matter what Sam thought, but to protect himself as well. Because he couldn't open himself up to all the possibilities--he couldn't take all the fear and still keep functioning.

"You could have so much more, Dean," Sam said, his voice soft. "More than hunting, more than just taking care of me. I used to think it was just my destiny, but now I think it's both of ours. I'm sorry."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You really are worse than Michael, you know that? You're not evil. You haven't even come close. You think a few visions and a possession are going to be your downfall? You're stronger than that, Sam."

The younger brother dropped his head, and Dean swallowed against the defeat he saw there.

"Seriously, man, you need to stop letting it get a hold of you. I told you--we can do this. Together."

With a deep breath, Sam looked up at him. "You never think about it? What I may be?"

"You're a bitch and a geek and my little brother, which is annoying as hell, but not exactly sinister."

"Which is exactly the problem," Sam told him. "All this—you have to stay because of me. My destiny only brings you down. You—you could be free. Me? I'm the real freak here."

They were hard words, true words, ones Dean had been avoiding since his father had died and Dean's need to live for him had vanished. Dean had broken the last order, and he resented it all. Sam was all he had left, and sometimes that was hard to swallow. He loved his brother, but he was lonely. Empty.

It hurt too much to think about.

He smiled instead, slapping Sam hard on the shoulder. "That's not exactly something new, Sammy," he said with a jovial smile. There'd been too much pain, too much doubt, too much fear. As long as they were together, it would be okay.

Sam shook his head, slowly letting out a bemused and disbelieving smile. "You really never will change, will you?"

"Life, death, the FBI," Dean said with a shrug. "You're _alive_, Sammy, and that's all that matters. That's all I need to take care of. You want to look out for me, you just make sure to keep fighting for yourself. Because I need you breathing or I wouldn't know what to do."

San laughed a little. "Alive, huh?" he said. "Well if that's all you expect from me, I think I can probably live up to my end of the bargain."

"That's all I need," Dean said with an emphatic nod. The charade was forced, strained, and Dean could see that Sam was able to look right through it. But the appearance of it, the attempt at some semblance of normalcy, of safety, of peace--that was what Sam needed. It was what they both needed. It was all they had.

Besides, sometimes lying long enough made it true. Or true enough. Dean knew that from experience.

He sighed, gathering himself. "You ready to blow this place?" Dean asked.

Squinting at him, Sam shrugged. "I guess," he said. "Where do you want to go?"

Dean furrowed his brow. It was the recurring question of their lives. Always going--someplace, never home. "I was thinking of having a picnic in front of a police station. Or, you know, chill out on federal property for awhile, wave at the security cameras."

The look Sam gave him was disbelieving. "What? Just because we can now?"

"Why not?" Dean said. "After all, it's not every day we get exonerated from federal charges."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, let's just work on staying _off_ that list for awhile."

Dean made a sound of dismissal. "Please, Sammy," he said. "You know who you're talking to?"

"Yeah," Sam countered with a snort. "Which is exactly my point."

Laughing at that, Dean just shook his head, striding out ahead of Sam. Moving out into the day, he could feel his brother's steps behind him, and he knew that everything, for once, was all right.

_end_


End file.
